Of Crowns and Daggers
by Tonight's The Night
Summary: "She lost someone recently. We both did." It shouldn't feel that way, he knows. But when he thinks about the warmth the others showed his clone, the solidity of the bonds between them, he aches, guilty and grieving and empty in a way he doesn't quite understand. Ryuuo/Syaoran. Written for TheOddFandom.
1. The Red Band

_Author's Notes:_

 _Hello, everyone, and welcome! So, a few weeks ago, I announced my submission guidelines for this year's Request Fest. For those of you unfamiliar with the tradition, it's where I take requests for pairings/ideas and write a fic based on one of those requests. This year's submission came from TheOddFandom, who asked for an angsty Ryuuo/Syaoran fic. Current projections put this fic at about ten chapters, which will put it at around 25K total (so . . . relatively short, at least compared to the sprawling behemoths my fics tend to become). For now, I'm planning on weekly updates, with a short break somewhere in there to work on/update some other fics.  
_

 _Aside from the original request, this story also draws a lot of inspiration from the Gentleman Bastards series by Scott Lynch, particularly the second book,_ Red Seas Under Red Skies _, in which the team pulls a heist on a prestigious gambling house. There won't be any heists in this story, but for those of you who've read the Gentleman Bastards series, you will find a lot of similarities in terms of the design elements. And, of course, the characters belong to Clamp, but you already knew that._

 _Thanks again to everyone who submitted a pairing/idea for this year's Request Fest, and thanks to the rest of you for reading/reviewing. Your appreciation makes my work feel worthwhile.  
_

* * *

Chapter One

Syaoran surveys the cards in his hand, eyes flickering to Sakura as he places a pair of Suns on the table. Across from him, one of their opponents, a portly man draped in red and gold silk, lays down a trio of Diamonds, a perfect complement for the cards displayed by his partner moments ago. Syaoran holds his breath, watching Sakura. He trusts her luck—with it, they've won enough money in the seedier gambling houses to meet the minimum bids here at The Red Band—but this game is as much strategy as chance, and given the proceedings thus far, they need an exceptional hand to win the round.

Sakura's eyes flick between the cards in her hand and those on the table. Then, unsmiling, she spreads her cards out in two piles—a pair of Crowns and a trio of Daggers.

The dealer whistles. "You must have one lucky star over you, girl," she says. Syaoran lets out the breath he's been holding. They gambled recklessly this round, relying on Sakura's luck to propel them to one of the higher tables, but evidently Sakura's supernaturally good fortune does not extend to her gambling partners—after a number of poor hands early on, they'd nearly tipped beyond the point where her luck could save them.

"We're taking a short intermission for the Spectacle," the dealer says, sweeping the cards off the table. "Anyone who wants to stay can reserve a spot, but it's going to be half an hour 'til this table's running again, so if you want to keep playing, you'll be better off finding a game in one of the lounges."

"Thank you," Sakura says, gathering up their chips. "But I think we'll cash out for now."

"Sure, sure," the dealer agrees easily, her ponytail bobbing as she takes the stacks of gambling chips and switches them out for money. Relatively speaking, it's quite a sum, enough for several nights at any of the five finest hotels in the Upper City, but it means little to their group. Paper money doesn't hold its value outside its original world, and though they can use some of it to buy precious metals to sell later on, the majority of it will be funneled back into these games.

Once Sakura has finished collecting their money, they leave the table, slipping through throng of wealthy merchants and politicians. Kurogane joins them moments later, and the crowd thins as nearby gamblers swerve to avoid him. He's playing the part of their hired bodyguard, while Fai, perched on one of the bar stools, holding a wide, blue-tinted glass by its delicate stem, gathers information about the rules and traditions particular to The Red Band. As he sees them, he tips his head in their direction, a hollow smile touching his lips.

"How did it go?" Mokona asks, poking her head out of the black leather satchel Fai purchased along with their clothes.

"We won," Sakura says. Her smile is as false as Fai's, and fades in seconds. Syaoran looks down, trying not to think of Tokyo, but the guilt rushes back anyway. If he'd arrived only a few minutes earlier, he could have spared all of them so much pain.

"Hear anything interesting?" Kurogane asks, managing not to look at Fai directly, though the question is obviously meant for him.

"No confirmation on those rumors, but I've managed to pick up a fair understanding of how this gambling house operates. You've seen the arena, I presume?" He nods toward the center of the room, where a railing separates the card tables from a massive sandpit set into the floor. Syaoran glances uneasily toward the arena, though he can see only a sliver of it from where he stands. It reminds him entirely too much of the long-unused fighting pits his clone once visited with Fujitaka.

"Yeah, it's weird," Kurogane says. "They put it in the middle of the room so everyone has to walk around it, but they haven't had anyone in it all night."

"Evidently, it's only used once each day, late in the evening," Fai says, neither responding to Kurogane's point nor precisely ignoring it. "Apparently, those who stretch their credit too far can perform there in exchange for having their debts forgiven."

Kurogane snorted. "Sounds like a lousy business practice."

Syaoran glances toward the pit, disquiet rippling through his chest. He's seen many worlds through his clone's eyes, enough to know that settling debts is rarely so easy. A gambling house cannot survive long by forgiving those who lack the credit to pay for their habit, so something else must be going on here.

"These games," Kurogane says, voice low. "How often do the participants survive?"

Fai's answering smile is thin, humorless. "Perhaps one in ten. Better odds than having one's throat slit, I suppose."

Syaoran bites back a surge of nausea as the lights dim. They've only been in the Undercity a few weeks, but already they've heard whispers of how The Red Band handles those who fail to pay their debts. While anyone caught cheating ends up with their throat slashed in the courtyard, those with outstanding debts tend to simply disappear. Now that they're here, it's swiftly becoming obvious that those disappearances are even more sinister than the rumors imply.

As the last of the lamps are extinguished, a pair of spotlights burst into luminescence, their wide beams focused on the pit. A wooden platform dangles above the sands, suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains. Three people now stand on the platform: two women dressed in skintight bodysuits that shimmer like flame, and a man in a sturdy tan jumpsuit.

"Ladies and gentlemen," one of the women says, making a flourishing bow to the audience. Belatedly, Syaoran realizes that all the tables have been cleared, that everyone in the room has turned to watch the show. Even in the dark, Syaoran can see the anticipation on their faces, the excitement. "We apologize for the interruption—"

"—though we assure you it's worth your while," the other woman breaks in. "And we thank you for your patronage. It is because of your loyalty that we remain the most prestigious gambling house in the Undercity. And so—"

"—without further ado—"

"—we present—"

"—this evening's entertainment!"

"My, my," Fai murmurs, sipping from his wineglass, "They certainly have their act down." But there's a bitter note to his voice, one that wasn't there before Tokyo, and when Syaoran glances at him, Fai's shoulders have tensed. "Perhaps we should make ourselves scarce until the performance is over."

They turn to Sakura, awaiting her decision, but rather than nodding, she takes several uneven steps toward the pit. "No," she says at last. "I'm going to watch."

Fai draws back in surprise. Kurogane regards her steadily. Syaoran glances back and forth, waiting for them to insist that they head to one of the lounges, away from whatever is about to happen, only to realize they aren't going to stop her.

When it becomes clear she will face no opposition, Sakura moves to join the murmuring ring of people standing above the pit. Kurogane and Fai flank her without a word, and after a moment, Syaoran trails after them. By the time they've reached the railing, the wooden platform has been lowered onto the sands, and the man in the tan jumpsuit steps off the edge. Syaoran can't see his expression from this angle, but he can see the man's hands shaking as he watches the platform rise.

"Behold the rare northern wolfcat!" cries one of the women on the platform, gesturing to an iron gate at the edge of the arena. Two small, furry mounds stir in the shadows, kicking up dust as their long black claws scrape at the bars. "Though no larger than a house-cat, these creatures have been known to take down mighty bears in the wild, tearing open throats and leaving deep furrows in the pelts of their prey. Hunters and trappers alike fear encountering this creature for its unrivaled viciousness, but tonight, our brave volunteer will fight not one, but _two_ of these savage beasts, using only his bare hands!"

A murmur of appreciation ripples through the crowd. Syaoran glances around, shocked by the hunger on the spectators' faces. _They're actually enjoying this,_ he thinks, sick.

"Would you care to place a wager, young master?" someone asks. Syaoran whirls around to find one of the black-clad attendants standing behind him, holding a clipboard and looking at him expectantly.

Sakura turns as well, frowning. "People bet on this?"

The man's mustache twitches. "House tradition. Patrons can gamble on the outcome of the Spectacle—it can be quite lucrative, if you have an eye for such things. Odds for this event are four-to-one in favor of the wolfcats, if you'd like to place a bet."

"I see," Sakura says, her voice devoid of emotion. "Perhaps another time."

The man nods and moves on to collect wagers from the next cluster of people, utterly indifferent to the potential cost of this game.

"This isn't right," Syaoran whispers.

"No, it isn't," Kurogane says, crossing his arms. "But we've staked too much on our plan to risk intervening now."

Syaoran looks away. They've spent weeks searching for the feather, visiting lesser gambling houses and listening at taverns for hints of anything unusual. The rumors indicate that the owner of The Red Band has recently acquired a powerful magical artifact and intends to make it the prize for the Grand Tournament two months from now. To cause a scene here, where the tournament is being hosted, could bar them from entering, thus forcing them to try to steal the feather instead—a much riskier proposition.

The gate separating the wolfcats from the arena begins to rise. Despite their name, they resemble neither wolves nor cats, but oversized weasels, with blunt noses and rounded heads. They could almost be mistaken for pets, except for the way their fur bristles as they hiss. The moment the gate rises high enough for them to push their bodies underneath it, they rocket into the arena, snarling. The man in the jumpsuit lifts his hands, planting his feet, and seconds later, the first wolfcat launches itself toward his face, teeth glistening. The man bats the creature away with the back of his fist, flinging it into the wall of the arena, but the other latches onto his ankle, tearing ferociously at the thick fabric of his jumpsuit even as he tries to shake the creature off. By the time he does, the other has bitten down on his hand, snarling, wrenching its body from side to side. The man slams the creature into the wall over and over, a series of awful thuds, and blood splatters across the sand, earning rapturous cries from the audience.

Syaoran glances at Sakura as she leans against the rail, then at Kurogane and Fai, both looking into the arena with grim expressions, and suddenly it's too much. His stomach pitches, and it's all he can do to keep himself from throwing up as he shoves through the crowd of slavering spectators, not caring where he ends up, so long as it is away from here.

None of the other patrons pay him any notice; they're too busy watching the wolfcats tear into their victim, calling for blood until their exultant cheers swallow up the man's cries for mercy.

* * *

He ends up in one of the lounges, surrounded by wood-paneled walls and plush maroon carpet. He skirts the edges of the room until he finds an unoccupied chair at the bar and sits, burying his face in his hands until the bartender strolls over. "What'll it be?" she asks, leaning forward, her hips pushing up against the edge of the counter, elbows resting atop the polished surface.

"Just water," he says, his voice thick.

"Overdid it a little, huh?" the woman says, pouring him a glass of water, garnished with a lemon wedge. Gingerly, he takes a sip, closing his eyes. "Let me know if you decide you want anything else," she tells him before flitting off to tend to her other patrons.

Syaoran says nothing. He feels sick, but not from drinking. He's seen many injustices, both from his own perspective and through the eyes of his clone, and he knows there is little he can do to change things here. He is merely a visitor to this world, and while he might help a handful of people, he cannot fix the broken system that makes up the bedrock of this city. And in any case, recovering Sakura's feather has to come first. He cannot afford to make ripples here, not yet.

A glass clinks down on the bar next to him. He lifts his head, startled, then stills as he takes in the features of the boy sliding onto the stool next to his: long red-brown hair, thick eyebrows, a warm expression. "Guess I'm not the only one dodging the night's circus," Ryuuo says, lifting his empty glass.

Syaoran shies away. It's been three weeks since they left Tokyo, and he's still unaccustomed to being around people. It should be easier, he thinks, but unlike his clone, he has spent the last seven years isolated, trapped in a tube, and every unexpected movement or brush of skin makes him flinch.

He doesn't know how to respond when someone looks at him like a person instead of a ghost.

"Sorry," Ryuuo says as the bartender sets another glass in front of him. "Not my business. You looked a little lonely, so I figured you might want company."

Syaoran meets Ryuuo's eyes, gauging his sincerity. Kindness, too, is foreign to him, but this time he manages a response. "I appreciate it."

Ryuuo beams, and the room seems a little brighter for it. "I saw you and that other girl playing Crowns at one of the tables," he says, swirling his glass. The amber liquid catches the light of a nearby sconce, glittering gold. "Managed to catch a glimpse of her last hand. You two must be pretty lucky, turning the game around right at the end like that."

Syaoran thinks of acid rain and empty eye sockets and the iron tang of blood. "She is," he says, wishing luck had been enough to help them in Tokyo.

Ryuuo eyes him for a moment, his easy smile fading. "Neither of you seemed real happy about it, though. Looked kind of depressed, actually. You take a big loss before your luck turned around?"

Syaoran shakes his head. "She lost someone recently. We both did." _She lost the person she cared about more than anyone else, and I lost everyone else._ It shouldn't feel that way, he knows. It wasn't _him_ that the others cared for, not really. But when he thinks of the warmth they showed his clone, the solidity of the bonds between them, he aches, guilty and grieving and empty in a way he doesn't quite understand.

"Ah." Ryuuo peers down into his glass. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he says, though it isn't. Ryuuo meets his eyes, his expression sober. He's older than the Ryuuo his clone met in Outo, but only by a year or two, and a little more refined in appearance, wearing a white jacket with brass buttons and matching slacks. His hair is still a little wild, though, stray tufts of chestnut sticking up at odd angles.

A muted cheer pulses through the walls, accompanied by the stomping of feet. Ryuuo's expression turns grim. "Guess the guy didn't make it."

Syaoran looks toward the main room, though of course he can't see anything through the walls. His earlier nausea returns, just a whisper of it, and he sips his water, trying to block out the noise. He can't, not really, but he can pretend, and that . . . that's fine.

"There'll be a few more rounds before the card tables start back up," Ryuuo says, sliding off his stool and slipping a deck of cards from his pocket. "You want to play a quick game?"

He hesitates, thinking of Sakura, of the importance of winning enough money to afford the tournament fees. "I shouldn't."

"Come on, one game," Ryuuo insists, tugging him toward a secluded table in the corner. "Just something to keep us occupied while we wait for the show to be over. You don't even have to put any money down."

"I . . ." He trails off at Ryuuo's hopeful look, and something fractures inside him. "All right."

Ryuuo smiles, excitement flashing in his eyes. Syaoran cannot help but notice they are nearly the same shade as Sakura's. But unlike Sakura, who has withdrawn and become cold since Tokyo, Ryuuo's expression is warm and welcoming, and a bittersweet ache pulses in Syaoran's chest at the sight of it.

"Let's play," Ryuuo says.


	2. Cards up the Sleeve

Chapter Two

"So, that girl you were with," Ryuuo says, laying a pair of Diamonds on the floor between them. They've forgone a proper table, opting instead to play on the plush carpet, marking down their wins and losses in a little notebook Ryuuo keeps with him. "Are the two of you . . . you know?"

It takes Syaoran a moment to parse the vague question, and when he does understand, he jerks back. " _No_ ," he says forcefully. When Ryuuo's eyebrows wing upward, he modulates his tone. "No, Sakura is . . ." _A friend,_ he almost says, but he can't claim even that much of her heart. Yet he cannot tell the truth, not all of it. This world has whispers of magic, but nothing that could explain their current situation, even were he willing to risk it. "We—that is, myself and the others I'm traveling with—are her bodyguards."

"All three of you?" Ryuuo asks, incredulous. "I mean, the big scary guy, sure, but . . ."

"We have other functions, of course," Syaoran adds before Ryuuo can think too deeply on the plausibility of his explanation. "There's a great deal more to security than physical strength, and we each have our respective roles aside from that. I know a number of foreign languages, for instance, and Fai-san is very personable." Or he had been, before Tokyo. His cards grow heavy in his hands as he lays them on the floor.

Ryuuo winces. "Ouch. I don't think I could have come up with a worse hand if you'd given me a full deck and twenty minutes to think about it."

His answering smile is brittle. "As I said, Sakura is the lucky one."

"I guess."

He gathers up his cards and passes them back to Ryuuo, who slips them into his deck and shuffles, fingers moving deftly. The cards blur between his hands, their rapid flickering almost hypnotic, like watching the scenery pass by on a train. Ryuuo halves the deck, shuffles again, then fans the cards out in front of him.

"Pick a card, any card," Ryuuo says, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Syaoran meets his eyes, startled by the glimmer of excitement in them, though perhaps he shouldn't be. After all, every other version of Ryuuo his clone encountered has been unwavering in their enthusiasm. It's one of the things he's always admired about them—they're driven not by responsibility but by passion, by a desire to be the best.

And so, curious and a little amused, he selects a card from the spread and peers at it—a Gold Dagger.

"Great," Ryuuo says. "Remember your card and stick it back into the deck. Good, just like that." Ryuuo smiles, sweeping the cards once again and shuffling them with mesmerizing speed before passing the deck back to Syaoran. "Give it a good shuffle. Go on—any technique you want."

Bemused, Syaoran shuffles the deck a few times, then passes it back to Ryuuo. He's fairly certain he knows where this trick is going, but perhaps he'll be able to catch the sleight of hand if he watches closely enough.

"Nothing up my sleeves," Ryuuo says, rolling back his sleeves with a flourish. "And nothing in my pockets." He turns his pockets inside out, coming up with a set of keys. He stares at them for a moment, his showman's expression faltering slightly. "Here, can you hold these for a second?" he says, dumping the keys into Syaoran's hand before sloughing off his jacket and shaking it out. Nothing falls out except for a few tufts of lint and a coin purse. "Um. Hold on."

Syaoran watches as Ryuuo goes through his jacket, checking each of the pockets—including a number of discreet inner pockets visible only as thin slits in the soft lining—before setting the garment aside entirely and checking his pants pockets, nose wrinkling as they, too, turn out to be empty. Seemingly at a loss, he checks one pant-sleeve, then the other, before exhaling sharply. "Spades, I might have actually lost the card this time. I swear this trick usually works. Oh, wait!" His eyes light up. "Check your sleeve."

Startled, Syaoran glances down and finds a card peeking out of his right cuff. With his free hand, he plucks the card out of his sleeve and turns it over. It's the Gold Dagger. He looks up at Ryuuo to see that his apparent confusion melting into a look of immense pride. When did he . . . ?

"You slipped me the card when you handed me your keys," Syaoran realizes. "That's how you did it."

Ryuuo beams. "You're quick. Usually I have to repeat the trick at least once before the person figures it out."

The words spark something in his chest, something he hasn't felt in a long, long time, and a laugh bubbles up his throat before he can stop it. He claps his hand over his mouth, instinctively stifling the sound, but then Ryuuo bursts into laughter, bright and warm and wonderful.

It'll be hours before he notices the change in himself and days before he can put it to words, but for just a little while, he's happy.

* * *

Fai glides into the lounge a few minutes later, his gold eye sweeping the room twice before landing on Syaoran. At once, the hollow inside him yawns wide, his smile dissolving like ruins beneath a veil of acid rain.

"Time to go, huh?" Ryuuo says, gathering up his cards.

"The princess will be expecting me."

Ryuuo's eyebrows inch upward. "Princess? Like, as in actual royalty, or . . ."

"It's complicated," he says. "But yes, she's royalty."

"Interesting company you keep." Ryuuo's eyes flit toward Fai, then back to Syaoran. He looks distinctly uneasy. "Well, see you around, I guess."

Syaoran frowns slightly, unable to identify the emotion behind the words and, consequently, unsure how to respond. "Sure," he says at last, oddly disappointed. "See you."

They exchange one final nod, then part ways, Ryuuo slipping his deck back into its box as Syaoran walks over to Fai. "Sorry. I should have been watching the time."

Fai regards him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Syaoran bows his head. Without the levity of Ryuuo's company, guilt settles over him like a funeral shroud. It might be tolerable if he knew for certain whether the others blamed him for Tokyo, but with the exception of Mokona, they've been too distant, too wrapped up in their own thoughts to pay much attention to him. Still, they must blame him, at least a little. It's only right.

"Sakura-chan has another table lined up," Fai says at last. Syaoran nods, feeling another stab of guilt at his inattentiveness, and they head out into the main room. The crowd around the arena has dispersed, congregating around card tables and slot machines or sipping drinks from the bar. He spots Kurogane hovering near one of the tables on the far side of the room, his height exceptional even amongst the relatively tall people of this world. Sakura stands at his side, hands folded in front of her body, expression neutral, just as it was at the start of the Spectacle. Syaoran represses a shudder as he follows Fai across the room, but he cannot help but look into the arena as they pass. A crew of men and women in black outfits pour water over the sand, washing away the blood before raking unsoiled sand over top of it to smooth out the pit's floor. The Spectacle couldn't have ended more than ten minutes ago, yet all but a few traces of the violence it hosted have already been swept away.

He swallows hard and keeps walking, nodding shallowly to the princess as he reaches her. Her only response is to ease into one of the chairs and place a handful of gambling chips on the table.

They win seven hands out of ten, moving on before the dealer can pick up on Sakura's unnaturally good fortune.

* * *

"Based on the numbers I've compiled, we're winning seventy-three percent of the time," Syaoran tells Fai the next day, between games. He's been tracking their wins and losses in a notebook, trying to determine the precise degree to which Sakura's luck influences their record. He's not sure how useful those numbers will be, but it keeps him from focusing too much on his guilt, and that's reason enough to compile them. "That said, the percentage is somewhat inconsistent depending on which game we're playing."

Fai glances up at him. "Inconsistent how?"

"From what I can tell, the more dependent on luck the game is, the more noticeable her talent for it," he says, pretending to study his notes so he doesn't have to meet Fai's eye. "For example, if she were to play each of the slot machines in this building, she'd win approximately nine out of ten rounds. But in a game of Crowns, which is by nature more dependent on strategy, she might win six out of ten games. The interesting thing is that even presuming she plays each hand to its fullest potential, the chance of victory varies by only a few percentage points from the experimental data."

"Meaning that the more strategic nature of the game actually alters the extent to which her luck functions," Fai says.

"Exactly."

"And yet the tournament consists of games which are arguably as dependent on strategy as on luck."

Syaoran nods, his excitement over his data faltering. "So long as there's some luck involved, she'll still have an advantage, but it's . . . precarious. And there are certain other drawbacks, particularly in partner-based games, as it appears her good fortune doesn't spread to her gambling partner. I don't have concrete data on this yet, but I suspect if we were to analyze the respective value of each hand, we'd find that, overall, everyone else at the table does slightly worse than average when she's playing, because her luck by nature reduces the chances of other players receiving the most valuable cards."

Fai peers into his glass, his gaze faraway, and Syaoran knows he's heard what has not been said: that winning six out of ten games means that they are losing four out of ten, and while those would be fine odds if they were merely playing for money, that's a dangerously high chance of failure for a tournament in which Sakura's memories are the prize.

"There are other factors to consider," Syaoran continues when Fai says nothing. "Skill, for one. Most of the people here have been playing for years, even decades. They can see opportunities where we wouldn't, and while we might be able to pick up a few tricks before the tournament, the simple fact is that if not for Sakura's luck, we'd have lost most of the games we've played."

Fai twirls his glass by its stem, watching the liquor inside form a whirlpool. Syaoran closes his notebook and peers up through his hair, awaiting a response. For a long time, none comes, until eventually Fai sets his glass on the counter. "For now let's just focus on getting into the tournament," he says. "The rest can wait."

Syaoran throat tightens as he recognizes the dismissal in Fai's voice. He stands, nodding, and turns away before anyone can see his expression. The friendships he mourns were not his to begin with; he has no right to grieve for them.

As he walks away, the lights dim, and people begin moving toward the arena. Syaoran looks out across the sea of card tables, all of them shut down in anticipation of the night's Spectacle, and sees Sakura leaning against the railing, Kurogane looming over her with his arms crossed. A moment later, Fai rises from his stool and goes to join them, knifing through the crowd with predatory grace.

After a long moment, Syaoran forces himself to follow.


	3. Fissures

Chapter Three

The night's Spectacle consists not of blood games but circus tricks. Syaoran stands at Sakura's side as two acrobats drop down from the ceiling on trapeze swings, making elegant leaps in their skintight suits. There's no net below, just the pristine sand of the arena, but as the house attendants dispense drinks and pipe tobacco to the guests, it becomes clear that no one will die tonight. Syaoran supposes he should be relieved that not every performance here features gruesome death or dismemberment, but he cannot help but notice the mood among the spectators. Though they do not seem precisely disappointed by the acrobats' performance, neither are they particularly engaged. Instead, their hunger for violence lurks beneath a veneer of civility, patiently awaiting the next Spectacle in the hopes that it will bring more bloodshed.

Syaoran watches the acrobats for about five minutes before excusing himself. Sakura has no need of him, with Kurogane and Fai watching over her as she nibbles on chocolate-dipped strawberries, and the card tables won't reopen until the show is over, so there is no reason to stay. Instead, he goes looking for Ryuuo.

Tonight, the lounge overflows with the wealthy and powerful denizens of the Undercity. A few faces look vaguely familiar—people he has seen in other worlds—but most are merely strangers. Any of them could afford to live in the Upper City, save for the fact that their businesses rely on a carefully cultivated system of extortion, exploitation, and other seedy practices which would be frowned upon above the surface. Syaoran steps carefully, peering through a sea of colorful, embroidered gowns and elegant robes trimmed with rich red and luminescent gold, but his search halts abruptly when he senses someone approaching from behind. He turns, fingers tingling with magic as he prepares to summon his sword, but before he can, he recognizes Ryuuo's face.

"Wow, you must have eyes in the back of your head," Ryuuo remarks, crossing the last few paces between them. Syaoran relaxes, letting his magic disperse harmlessly into the air. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

Syaoran frowns, but doesn't remark upon the odd statement as Ryuuo grabs his hand and tows him to a secluded corner of the room. There, Syaoran finds an alternate version of Souma leaning over a low square table. It appears to be some sort of game-board, lit from below in various colors.

"This is Souma," Ryuuo says, though of course Syaoran already knows. "She's my partner. In gambling. Not romantically."

Souma lifts an eyebrow. "He's not going to believe you if you let yourself get flustered like that," she says before clasping Syaoran's wrist. Taking it for this world's version of a handshake, he returns her grip. "And your name?"

"Syaoran."

"You ever played Trick Tile before, Syaoran?"

He shakes his head.

Souma gestures to the game-board, half the tiles lit up in various colors. "Every time you touch one of the squares," she says, reaching forward to tap one of the unlit tiles, "it lights up. The goal is to illuminate everything except the traps."

"Traps?" he repeats.

Ryuuo nods enthusiastically. "If you activate one of the traps, the whole board turns red and you lose the game. But you can avoid them by paying attention to the colors of the activated squares. For instance, when you see a green square, you know that there's only one trap nearby," he says, activating another tile. "Blue means there are two traps, yellow means three, and so on. They have reference sheets if you need one," Ryuuo adds, handing him a scrap of paper from the compartment underneath the game-board. "There's some luck involved—sometimes you just have to guess where a trap will be—but mostly it's a mental exercise."

"Is there a penalty for losing?"

Ryuuo shrugs. "You have to drop a coin in the slot to get the machine going, but it's basically the cheapest game you'll find here. And if you win three rounds in a row, you get your money back anyway, plus a little extra every consecutive victory after that. You'll never get rich off it, but it's something to keep you busy while you're waiting for the tables to open up." He leans forward, tapping another square, then winces as the board buzzes and turns red. "Oops. Sorry, Souma. Didn't mean to ruin your game."

Souma sighs, then leans toward Syaoran, lowering her voice. "He's more clever than he acts, but his impatience can make him a bit frustrating sometimes." Her lips press into a thin line. "If he's pestering you, let me know."

Ryuuo throws Souma a wounded look. "Hey, I'm not _that_ bad." At Souma's flat look, he wilts, turning to Syaoran. "Though I guess I can be a little over-enthusiastic."

"It's fine," Syaoran assures him. "Actually, it's kind of nice."

Ryuuo's eyebrows shoot up. "What, really?"

He nods, and Ryuuo beams as if he's just received an unexpected present. "See, Souma? Not everyone thinks I'm annoying."

Souma rolls her eyes, dropping a coin into the machine. It comes to life with a series of chimes, glowing a soft, uniform gray. "Let's put money on it," she says, plucking an additional two coins from her purse. "We each play a game, and whoever gets the farthest without setting off any traps wins the bet."

"Sure, but let's keep to small stakes," Ryuuo says, retrieving two coins of his own. "I don't want to go broke before I hit the tables."

Syaoran hesitates, glancing toward the main room, where Sakura and the others are no doubt waiting for the card tables to reopen. He has a coin purse of his own, of course, for necessities, but it feels wrong to wager it on a game he's never played, no matter how paltry the bet. "I shouldn't."

Ryuuo and Souma exchange a glance. "Why not?" Ryuuo asks.

"We . . . Sakura and I are supposed to be saving money for the tournament. I shouldn't make wagers without consulting her."

"But they're your winnings, too, aren't they?" When Syaoran doesn't respond, Ryuuo sits up, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Look, Syaoran, you don't have to gamble if you don't want, but you shouldn't feel like you have to negotiate for every spare coin, either. Would it bother you if your princess wanted to play a few solo games with her share?"

"No, but . . ." _But it's her luck that's winning these games for us. I might be her gambling partner, but she's the reason we're able to do this._ Still, Ryuuo has a point. Even if Syaoran hasn't been instrumental in their success, he's spent hours analyzing their wins and losses, learning the rules of each game and working out strategies to maximize their chances.

And maybe he needs this—not the gambling, but the chance to set those responsibilities aside for a few minutes. Besides, he has plenty of other things to feel guilty about; a handful of coins lost or gained is nothing next to the rest of his failures.

He fishes two coins out of his purse and sets them on the edge of the table. "All right. One round for each of us."

Souma shifts forward, tapping one of the squares. Several adjacent squares also light up, in varying colors, and she sets to work filling out the board. It only takes a few moves for Syaoran to understand the game. Ryuuo said it was more a mental exercise than a true game of chance, and he's right—for the most part, process of elimination is enough to identify which tiles must be traps. It's only when Souma has filled out about three-quarters of the board that she begins to run out of safe options. She hesitates, fingers hovering over a trio of tiles, and pushes the wrong one, causing the rest to glow red.

"Not bad," Ryuuo says, cracking his knuckles as he sidles forward for his own game. He doesn't even fill out half the board before he hits a trick tile. "Ack!"

"You know, if you slowed down, you'd have seen that you still had plenty of safe options left," Souma says.

"Yeah, but what's the point in playing it safe? You've got to take risks if you want to win big."

"Calculated risks, maybe," Souma says, glancing at Syaoran. "Maybe you can teach my partner here the benefits of patience."

He nods absently, tapping a square near the corner to reveal his starting path. Though he's not as practiced as Souma, he makes steady progress, surpassing Ryuuo's score and mentally marking the locations of nearby traps. As poor as his luck has been in other games, the puzzle component here plays to his skill set. He clears eighty percent of the board before setting off a trap, beating Souma's score by four tiles.

Ryuuo whistles. "You sure you've never played Trick Tile before?" he asks, sliding the coins over to Syaoran's corner of the table. "'Cause that was a pretty good run."

Souma inclines her head. "Not bad."

"Want to play another round?" Ryuuo asks, and Syaoran almost says yes before he remembers his traveling companions. Their game has taken up almost fifteen minutes, and the card tables will be opening up again soon.

"Sakura will be expecting me," he says, gathering up his winnings and slipping them into his coin pouch.

"Ah. Tomorrow then?"

He meets Ryuuo's eyes, surprised by the intensity of his gaze, then nods. "Tomorrow."

* * *

That night, on their way back to the inn, Fai suggests they visit the market.

"This was just an excuse to buy sweets, wasn't it?" Kurogane says five minutes later when Fai veers toward a cart selling doughnuts.

Syaoran glances at Fai, expecting a quip about Kurogane's disdain for sugar or a reminder that they ought to relax when they can, but the remark doesn't come, and a brittle silence falls over the five of them. It's only when Mokona asks about the powdered doughnuts in the display case that the atmosphere lightens.

"We'll take a dozen," Fai tells the man behind the counter.

"What kind?"

"Just give us an assortment."

The man grunts and begins sorting doughnuts into a white cardboard box. Syaoran almost reminds Fai that sugar alone can't sustain them, but then he sees Sakura smiling, and his heart gives a peculiar squeeze. He reminds himself that she's not his Sakura, that the Sakura he fell in love with is trapped in some abyss of time, beyond his reach, and the reminder drives a knife into the fissures in his heart, prying them open again.

He doesn't know how long he can hold onto that pain, but he knows he can't do it indefinitely. Something has to give, and soon.

* * *

The next day, he doesn't wait for the Spectacle to begin; as soon as the dealer at their table calls for intermission, Syaoran makes his way to the lounge where Ryuuo habitually spends his breaks.

He barely makes it past the doorway before the shouting starts.

"Get back here, you little cheat!" A loud crash echoes from the fringes of the room, eliciting a chorus of startled cries, and before he can evaluate the danger, Syaoran starts running toward the source of the noise.

"Whoa, whoa! I never cheated anyone!" another voice yells. _Ryuuo_.

"Hold still, you filthy gutter-snipe. No one wins eight hands in a row."

Syaoran can see the other man now. His pudgy face and shrill voice are vaguely familiar, but it still takes him a few seconds to recognize him: he's an alternate version of the spoiled nobleman's son from Koryo. Syaoran pushes through the knot of people, apologizing reflexively, and steps into the bubble of empty space between Ryuuo and his opponent. _"Enough."_ His own voice startles him, forceful and unyielding in a way he hasn't been since he fought his clone in Tokyo.

The thickset man squints at him. "Who the hell are you?"

Ryuuo steps forward, grabbing Syaoran's hand and standing beside him. "He's my _friend_. And I never cheated you, Ryon. I don't need to."

"Hey!" the bartender yells, stalking toward them with a wooden club. The ring of onlookers goes quiet. "No fights in the lounge. Take it outside or settle it in the arena."

"This kid cheated me!" Ryon cries, jabbing a finger in Ryuuo's direction. The accusation hangs heavy in the air, and all the rumors about The Red Band's policies toward cheaters whisper through Syaoran's mind. He knows nothing outside of those rumors, but even a false accusation could end with Ryuuo's throat slit in the courtyard.

 _No,_ Syaoran thinks, something inside him solidifying. _I won't allow it.  
_

The bartender's eyes sweep from the crown of Ryuuo's head to his feet, then flicker to Ryon. "He cheated you? In what game?"

Syaoran calculates the approximate distance to the exit. He thinks they can make it before anyone seizes them, so long as Ryuuo doesn't fight him. He'll need to keep them hidden, and Kurogane or Fai will have to take his place as Sakura's gambling partner until the tournament ends, but they have to get out of here first.

"What _game_ , Ryon? Or are you too stupid to remember?"

Ryon's jaw flexes, a flush creeping into his cheeks. "Crowns."

"Pft. There aren't any card tables in this lounge."

"We weren't sitting at a card table."

"Then it's not the house's problem," the bartender says.

"But he still cheated!"

"Look, if you got fooled in an unsanctioned game, that's your own fault. Remember that next time you start shouting accusations."

The bartender turns away, shoulders stiff. One of the men in the crowd wolf-whistles. "Woo, Kendappa!"

"Fuck off," she says without looking back.

The crowd mutters, disappointed by the lack of bloodshed, before abandoning the area. "You'll get what's coming," Ryon sneers, his beady eyes focusing on Ryuuo. "My father's a councilman. He'll drown you like the sewer rat you are."

Ryuuo says nothing, and after a moment, Ryon stalks off, the back of his neck red and mottled. Syaoran counts ten heartbeats before turning to Ryuuo. "Are you all right?"

The other boy shivers, his icy fingers clamped tight around Syaoran's palm. "I think I need to sit down."

Syaoran nods, guiding him to a plush chair next to an overturned table. Playing cards litter the floor around them, and Syaoran spends several seconds wondering who they belong to before realizing that this must be where Ryuuo was playing before the fight. _That explains the crash I heard,_ Syaoran thinks, imagining Ryon knocking over the table in his fury. Gently, Syaoran frees his hand from Ryuuo's and starts gathering up the cards before anyone steps on them.

"Thanks," Ryuuo says numbly when Syaoran passes the deck back to him. It takes him three tries to get the cards into their container, and when he tries to slip the box into one of his jacket's inner pockets, it tumbles from his fingers, hitting the floor with a thud that makes him flinch.

"Where's Souma?" Syaoran asks. Perhaps she'll know how to soothe Ryuuo's nerves.

"Watching the Spectacle."

Syaoran winces, memories of desperate cries and blood on the sand flickering in his mind's eye. It hasn't occurred to him until this moment, but he didn't see Souma that first night, either, and now he knows why. This world is cruel, more so than most he's visited, but he hadn't thought Souma would be one to enjoy that casual brutality.

"It's not—she's not as bad as the rest of them," Ryuuo says.

Syaoran nods, unsettled, then decides it's probably better for Ryuuo to believe that, at least for now. "The man you were playing cards with—who is he?"

"Ryon Fieren, son of Councilman Fieren, from the Upper City." Ryuuo grimaces, drawing his knees up against his chest. "Ryon likes to flaunt his family's money, but he's just a bully. I figured I'd play a few rounds with him, maybe shake off some of that attitude. But I didn't cheat him, I swear. He's just a shoddy Crowns player."

"I believe you," he says. He's not surprised that the entitled bully from Koryo is just as spoiled in this world. A person's experiences might change between dimensions, but the core of their personality seems largely stable, so far as he's seen.

Ryuuo watches him for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, then leans forward and clasps Syaoran's hand between his own. "Thank you," he says earnestly. "You're one of the only people who's ever stood up for me. It . . . it means a lot."

"I . . ." Syaoran hesitates, then rests his open hand atop Ryuuo's. "You're welcome."


	4. The Undercity

Chapter Four

Ryuuo is well into his second cocktail by the time his hands stop trembling. Syaoran can see the strain in his shoulders, the way he twitches whenever someone brushes past his chair. Ryon's accusation might have been false, but that does not erase the fear it created.

So they drink and talk. Or rather, Ryuuo talks, and Syaoran listens, nodding and making noises of agreement. Practicing, in a way. It's been years since he's had a real friend, and his social skills have suffered for it.

Ryuuo doesn't seem to mind, if he notices at all, and as he talks, the tension seeps out of his body. By the time Syaoran finishes his drink, their conversation has adopted a comfortable rhythm, which is why Ryuuo's question catches him off-guard.

"So, the people you're traveling with . . . they don't, you know, hit you or anything, do they?"

Syaoran blinks. The idea is absurd—whatever resentment his companions might hold, they've never resorted to physical harm. The closest any of them have come was in Tokyo, when Kurogane saw the bat sigil on his shirt and assumed he was an agent of Fei-Wang Reed, but who can blame him for reacting with fury, given what was done to him? "No, of course not. What made you think they would?"

Ryuuo squirms in his chair. "It's just that you sort of cringe whenever they come near you. I mean, I just thought that if you needed someplace to go, you could stay with me. If you wanted."

The offer surprises him almost as much as the question. He traces his index finger along the polished edge of the bar, that cold, aching void in his heart stretching wider. "They weren't the ones who hurt me," he says slowly, remembering the press of glass against his fingertips, the darkness of his prison as he struggled to hold onto consciousness while his clone slept. "I was . . . kidnapped." That's not precisely how it happened, but it's close enough that the distinction hardly matters. "I managed to escape eventually, but before that I was held captive for a while."

"How long is a while?" Ryuuo asks, voice hushed, as if he's afraid to hear the answer.

 _Too long._ He doesn't let the words get past his lips. He has so many secrets and so few people he can trust with them.

Ryuuo regards him for a long moment, then plucks a napkin from the stack in front of them and scrawls several lines "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he says, passing the napkin over to Syaoran. "But if you ever decide to take some time away from it all, let me know."

Syaoran takes the napkin. "What's this?"

"The address for my apartment. I'm going to make myself scarce for a few days, until Ryon finds someone else to push around, but if you need someone to talk to, I'll be there."

"That's very kind of you." Syaoran folds the napkin into quarters and tucks it into his coat pocket.

"Friends look out for each other, right?" A pained smile touches Ryuuo's lips.

"Right."

* * *

Syaoran spends the next evening at the card tables, analyzing Sakura's luck in greater detail in stolen moments between games. He has enough data points now to calculate their odds of victory within one percent, and with little else to do aside from refining the numbers, he finds himself looking out across the room, searching for a familiar redheaded figure. He hadn't realized it until tonight, but he's become accustomed to catching glimpses of Ryuuo while he's playing cards, and his absence leaves him feeling oddly . . . bereft.

Kurogane is the first to notice his distraction. "What's wrong?"

He tenses, hurriedly turning his attention back to his notes. "It's nothing."

The ninja regards him, arms crossed. Syaoran holds his breath, anxiety knotting in his stomach. It's fine if the others find out about Ryuuo—they already know Syaoran leaves during the nightly performances—but he doesn't want them to think he's devoting any less than his complete attention to acquiring the feather. They already have enough reason to resent him.

After a moment, Kurogane closes his eyes. "Whatever it is, don't let it interfere with our goal here."

He nods solemnly, and Kurogane walks away.

* * *

The Spectacle that night involves a giant mesh cage, a man with a dagger, and a nest of furious, eight-inch-long hornets.

Syaoran forces himself to stay despite the continuous chant of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ in his head. Sakura always stays, though she never bets on the performances. Before he can stop himself, he asks why she watches.

"When we refuse to acknowledge suffering, we give power to those who inflict it," she tells him, fingers tightening around the rail as one of the hornets leaves a toothpick-sized barb in the man's forearm. The man howls and yanks the stinger out, his dagger flailing wildly as the house attendants release two more hornets into his cage. "I may not be able to change this world, but I will not blind myself to its cruelty."

Syaoran swallows. Sakura doesn't say it, but that's exactly what he's been doing by retreating to the lounge during Spectacles. "I see."

"It's all right if you want to leave," Sakura says, an echo of her old gentleness wending through her voice. "You've already suffered so much for us—you don't have to watch."

"I . . ." He doesn't know how to reply. He assumed the others resented him, blamed him for what happened in Tokyo. And while it's true that he's endured a great deal for the chance to set things right, he must remember that it was his choice which enabled Fei-Wang Reed to set his plot in motion.

So he makes himself watch as the remaining hornets swarm the man in the arena. They continue to sting him long after he falls, convulsing, to the floor.

* * *

Another day slips by, then a week. Between games, when no one is watching, Syaoran takes the napkin from his jacket pocket and unfolds it, reading Ryuuo's clumsy handwriting until the words seem to glow in his mind, like an afterimage that grows brighter over time.

* * *

Each night, when The Red Band's patrons gather around the arena, Syaoran stands by Sakura's side. The Spectacle doesn't always include blood-games—Syaoran suspects that with the strict policy on debts here, patrons are careful not to let themselves fall into the red. Only the compulsive gamblers and the truly desperate dare play beyond their means. Most of them end up dying on a bed of sand, torn apart by some exotic predator or mangled while traversing a field of traps. Of the four people forced to participate in the Spectacle that week, only one survives.

* * *

It doesn't take long for the horrors of The Red Band to creep into his nightmares. In one dream, twisted creatures with teeth and claws shred his body like rice paper. In another, he's running from a swarm of hornets when his legs suddenly stop working. In other dreams, it's not him in the arena, but one of his companions, and he is too slow, too weak to save them. Those dreams are . . . difficult. Primal fears he can rationalize, but the nightmares where he survives while the people he cares about are slaughtered follow him into wakefulness.

There is one nightmare, though, that has nothing to do with the horrors he witnesses in the arena. In that dream, he slams his fists against the inside of a curving tube as its walls draw inward. In that dream, he is a prisoner, bound by magic like a butterfly pinned to a board as Fei-Wang peers through the dark glass, his features etched in shadow.

He wakes from the nightmare damp with sweat, his lungs seizing up with fear, suffocating. He flails in the cocoon of sheets, cotton clinging to his skin like so many threads of magic, and tumbles out of bed, hitting the hardwood floor with bruising force. Adrenaline pounding in his veins, he writhes until the sheets loosen enough for him to escape, and then he's outside, dragging great, heaving breaths through his lips, and it's not enough; the vast ceilings of the Undercity are still too close, pressing down, down, down with the weight of an entire world and he _can't breathe._

He doesn't know how long the panic attack lasts, but when he emerges from it, his cheeks are sticky with dried tears and his teeth ache from clenching his jaw. Minutes slip by: five, ten, twenty. Slowly, he unfurls, taking stock. The Undercity has no true night or day, but it does have lights that fluctuate in color. Syaoran has already designated pale gold as mid-morning, but given that they stayed out until dawn, he's only slept for a few hours.

Fragments of his nightmare flicker through his mind, like broken glass, too sharp to handle. He goes back inside and writes a note to the others, telling them he'll meet them at The Red Band when it opens, then leaves the inn behind to wander the Undercity.

The streets are quiet. The factory workers and laborers who make up most of the adult population have already started work for the day, and the more affluent citizens are still recovering from their nightly revels, nursing hangovers or drowsing in bed. Syaoran traverses the countless metal walkways that make up so much of the Undercity's upper levels, ignoring the occasional bursts of sultry air puffing up from the vents below. The scholarly part of him muses over the intricate workings of this underground city and its clockwork machinery. This world appears to be in the midst of its first major industrial revolution, yet the massive cavern that makes up the Undercity shows evidence of having been inhabited for decades. He speculates that this was originally a natural cavern, later hewn into a more functional form as the technology to do so became available.

He wonders how many of these people have ever seen the sun.

For a while, he wanders, passing through neighborhoods and marketplaces. Rust clings to many of the buildings, peeking out through flaking paint, and even the few shops in good repair show signs of age. While the patrons of The Red Band spend ludicrous amounts of money betting on the fates of the less fortunate, the rest of the Undercity dies a slower death, its people trapped in an endless cycle of labor and low pay as their buildings rust and crumble around them.

 _There's nothing we can do to fix this place._ He shoves the thought aside, reaching for the napkin in his pocket before he remembers that he left his jacket at the inn.

It doesn't matter; he has the address memorized, and for all its flaws, the Undercity is scrupulously organized. It takes him less than half an hour to reach Ryuuo's apartment complex. A metal mesh fence surrounds the building, frayed in some places where animals have chewed through the wires, and a collection of poorly-rendered graffiti paints the side of the building.

The complex has little in the way of security. Syaoran makes his way up to the third floor without anyone sparing him a glance, then halts outside Ryuuo's apartment. It only occurs to him then that if Ryuuo has kept his usual habits, he's unlikely to be awake for hours still. _I should go back to the inn,_ Syaoran thinks. It's early still. He can dispose of his note, start breakfast, and pretend everything is fine.

Instead, he sits in the hall outside Ryuuo's door and settles in to wait.


	5. Sincerity and Determination

Chapter Five

Syaoran jolts out of sleep as something nudges his shoulder. Disoriented, he opens his eyes, then squints against the too-bright lights reflecting off the drab white wall across from him. He has several seconds to wonder how he ended up in an unfamiliar hallway before he remembers where he is.

"If you're looking for a place to sleep," Ryuuo says, peering at him with puzzled amusement, "you'd probably be more comfortable in my bed. Or on the couch," he adds quickly, cheeks flushing. "Thirteen Hells. I didn't mean to . . . um." He takes a breath, pushes his door wider in invitation. "Come on in."

"Thanks," Syaoran says, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck as he ducks inside. Ryuuo's apartment is nicer than the building's exterior suggested. A chandelier made of curling pieces of iron illuminates the living room, where a rich maroon sofa and matching armchair cluster around a low glass table cluttered with magazines and drink coasters.

"Sorry for the mess," Ryuuo says, gathering up a couple empty glasses and depositing them in the sink. "I sort of figured you'd decided not to visit."

Syaoran winces. "I didn't realize—"

"Don't worry about it." Ryuuo plucks a kettle from the stove as it begins to whistle and turns off the burner. "You drink tea? I've got a nice citrus blend if you're interested."

"Sure."

As Ryuuo retrieves a pair of mugs from the cupboard, Syaoran eases into the armchair, running his fingertips across the plush upholstery. After the rough, industrial gray carpet and bare walls of the hallway, the room seems almost lavishly furnished.

When he says as much, Ryuuo laughs. "You should have seen it before Souma helped me redecorate. It was only meant to be a flop, but then it turned out I was actually pretty good at Crowns, and this place is close to most of the major gambling houses, so I stayed. Security's nonexistent, but I installed a couple locks on the door, and the windows are too small to climb through unless you're _really_ skinny, so I'm not too worried about it. Here." He hands Syaoran a mug and perches on the arm of the couch. "Tell me what you think."

Syaoran takes a cautious sip, the scent of orange peels and lemon prickling in his nose. "It's delicious," he says as a subtle burst of sweetness blooms across his tongue.

"Glad you like it." Ryuuo's smile then isn't quite as exuberant as others Syaoran has seen, but there's a soft satisfaction in it. "It's actually two different varieties mixed together—citrus and lavender. You can have some to take home if you want."

It's clear Ryuuo wants him to say yes, so he nods. "I appreciate it."

Ryuuo sets down his teacup and heads back into the kitchen, several drawers rumbling before he finds a stack of miniature paper bags, like those one might use to store coffee beans. Syaoran watches, eyes drawn the sinuous roll of Ryuuo's shoulders, bared to expose the natural bronze tone of his skin. Unbidden, Syaoran thinks of the card trick Ryuuo showed him more than a week ago now, the way his fingers moved, fluid yet precise. He looks more natural without his white jacket, unencumbered.

Their eyes meet as Ryuuo turns back toward the living room. His footsteps falter. "What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing." Syaoran peers into his mug to hide his expression.

"Come on, let me in on the joke. Is it my hair? I brushed it before I went to bed, but . . ." He grimaces, patting his hair. Like everything else about him, there's a wild, unruly quality about it. It's strangely endearing.

"I was just thinking you look nice without the jacket," Syaoran says at last.

Ryuuo's eyebrows wing up, and he wonders if he's made a misstep. His social skills have improved these past few weeks, but it's going to be a while before he can maintain anything resembling confidence. Far longer than he's going to be in this world. The thought depresses him. Once they've secured the feather, he'll have no reason to stay. Ryuuo will never see him regain his confidence, will never know who he really is. They might not even get a chance to say goodbye; he's seen Mokona whisk the others out of dangerous situations, often with little warning, and while his clone might have been good with farewells, he isn't, not really.

"So," Ryuuo says, when the pause grows awkward, "what made you decide to stop by?"

He hesitates, remembering the nightmare, the panic attack that followed. The thought of letting Ryuuo see just how damaged he is makes his fingers tighten around his mug. "I just wanted to see you."

"Yeah?"

He nods.

"Well, I'm glad you came. It's been pretty dull around here." Ryuuo collapses onto the couch, one leg drawn up so his knee presses against his chest, the other resting on the table in front of him. "I hit a couple of the gambling houses over in Sector Five, but the atmosphere's just not the same. All the pros go to The Red Band—competitive players, high-rollers, even some people from the Upper City." He looks at Syaoran. "You still planning on joining the tournament?"

Syaoran nods. "We're registering tomorrow." Something occurs to him then, and he sits up in his chair. "What about you? Will you and Souma be participating?"

"Nah. I don't want to die that badly."

Unease whispers down the back of his neck. He lowers his voice. "Are the tournaments dangerous?"

"Someone dies every year. Usually more than one person." Something flickers in Ryuuo's eyes, gone before Syaoran can identify it. "Every round has some sort of gimmick—a penalty for losing, or some added condition to make it more . . . exciting." His lips curl as if the word tastes bitter coming out of his mouth. "The entry fees cover the actual prize money, but The Red Band relies on the spectators to make a profit, which means they need to draw a crowd."

"And they do this by endangering the participants?" Syaoran asks, feeling as if he's swallowed a fistful of ice. Recovering Sakura's feathers has always posed some risk, but most of the time, they know when they're walking into danger. How could he have missed the fact that the tournament they're entering will put Sakura in peril?

Ryuuo shrugs, but it's clear from the way he draws his knees up to his chest that this line of conversation makes him uneasy. "That's why people from the Upper City come to The Red Band," he says. "They're searching for people to look down on—fallen elites who can't keep up with their debts or upstarts from the sublevels who've scraped together enough money to play at the big tables only to lose it all and end up performing in the Spectacle. The people in the Upper City don't care about us. We're just entertainment to them."

Syaoran doesn't know what to say. The awful thing is that he's not even surprised. Even the most civilized societies are rarely kind to their poor and downtrodden. Here, in this world where only the wealthiest citizens have a chance to see the sun, where buildings and infrastructure are allowed to fall into disrepair, where the most lucrative businesses revolve around vice and addiction . . . No, the affluent citizens' lack of regard for their inferiors doesn't surprise him at all.

"I'm going to change things," Ryuuo says, determination sparking in his jade eyes. "I'll buy my way into the Upper City, then find a way to stop to the Spectacle and everything like it, no matter how many people ridicule me." His whole body draws tight, hands clenching into fists, arms wrapping around his knees. The look on his face has shades of pain and anger, tempered by the sort of resolute strength that makes grand statements seem possible.

After a moment, Ryuuo lets his muscles go slack, sprawling across the couch. "You probably think I'm crazy for believing I can change anything. It's okay—I'm used to it."

"I don't think you're crazy," Syaoran says, setting down his mug.

Surprise plays across Ryuuo's face, followed by a cautious sort of hope. "You don't?"

He shakes his head, rising from his chair. Hesitantly, Ryuuo stands, trailing after him as he orders his thoughts. "It takes two things to create change: determination and sincerity," Syaoran says, pacing the length of the room. "Without the first, a person won't be able to put forth the effort necessary to accomplish their goals. Without the second, they become vulnerable to their own greed and self-interest. But you have both." He meets Ryuuo's eyes. "You're not crazy. You're brave. Selfless. You're . . ." _You're the sort of person I'm supposed to be,_ Syaoran realizes with a jolt. _The person I could be, if I weren't so broken._

It should hurt, that realization. He stands beside someone with the idealism and determination to inspire real change, yet he can't even observe the injustices of this world without wanting to hide from them. But it doesn't hurt. If anything, it gives him hope—hope that someday even this world will become something worthwhile, hope for his own mission to set things right.

"No one has ever believed in me before," Ryuuo says, a strange look crossing his face. "You—you really think I can do it?"

Syaoran nods solemnly. "I do."

Ryuuo's breath catches, a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing in his eyes, and then he's leaning forward, broad hands settling on Syaoran's waist, and Ryuuo's mouth is on his, fierce and demanding. Syaoran stills, thoughts scattering like sand as Ryuuo's tongue flicks against his lower lip. Heat ripples across his body in waves, feverish and electrifying. He's never been kissed before. The closest he's come is holding hands with his Sakura, and it's been years since he last saw her, years of darkness and isolation and guilt.

Somewhere, in the haze of sensation, it occurs to him that he should pull away.

He doesn't.

Instead, he lets his arms fold around Ryuuo's shoulders, tilting his head up to expose his neck. Ryuuo makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine, and as his teeth graze the pulse point above his carotid artery, a shudder works its way down Syaoran's back.

"Can I?" Ryuuo asks, nuzzling his collarbone, and Syaoran has no idea what he's asking for, but he doesn't want this to stop, so he hums an affirmative. Ryuuo fastens his mouth over the skin there, sucking lightly, and Syaoran's fingers dig into the other boy's shoulders as pleasure sings through his body.

Amidst the storm of desire, a part of his mind sets to work piecing together a puzzle he hadn't even realized existed. In hindsight, it's obvious that Ryuuo was interested in him this way. The card tricks in the lounge, meant to amuse as much as impress; Ryuuo specifying that Souma was his partner in gambling, not romance; his awkward shyness upon finding Syaoran outside his door. And Syaoran had been oblivious to all of it, learning to laugh and smile again without realizing that he wanted this, too.

Ryuuo kisses him again, on his mouth, then his cheeks, light as a moth's wing. But when his lips brush over Syaoran's eyelid, he jerks back, the spell shattering. For one awful moment, he's back in Clow, ripping out a piece of his soul and pushing it into his clone in a futile attempt to disrupt Fei-Wang Reed's plans.

Ryuuo steps back, eyes wide. "D-did I do something wrong?"

His voice, hoarse with alarm, gives Syaoran something to focus on, something besides the memory of dark magic coiling around his body, restraining his limbs as glass walls rise up to trap him. He wraps his arms around his chest, heart pounding. The feverish heat that ensconced him during the kiss seeps away, leaving his skin pallid and clammy. "I'm sorry." The words are a reflex by now, spoken so often it sometimes seems like it's the only thing he ever says. He turns toward the door. "I have to go."

"Wha—wait!" Ryuuo's fingers close around his wrist, too much like manacles. Syaoran flinches, and Ryuuo releases him as if he's been burned.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault, it's—" He stops, something twisting inside him, and fumbles for the doorknob. "I'm sorry."

"Will I see you again?"

The words lance through the tattered remains of his composure. He swallows hard. He should say no, break this off so that Ryuuo will never have to see how broken he is, how unworthy he is of affection. But instead he says, "Maybe," and that's somehow worse, because it implies hope for something more, something he might not be able to give.

He steps across the threshold and closes the door behind him.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _Sorry for the delay, everyone. This chapter required three rewrites before I was satisfied with how it turned out (It was worth it, but it took some time). I will be taking a short hiatus so I can work on a couple other fics, but we'll be back to this one in a few weeks. In the meantime, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. You guys are awesome._


	6. Contempt

Chapter Six

The Red Band opens each evening at dusk.

Or, rather, it opens at what qualifies as dusk here in the Undercity, where the only way to judge time is by lamps that shift in color with the passing of hours. Regardless, it's too early to meet up the others at the gambling house, and he has little incentive to return to the inn, so he finds an out-of-the-way tavern a few blocks from The Red Band and orders a mug of cider. Like most of the beverages in the Undercity, it's alcoholic, though he suspects that has more to do with staving off illness than anything else, given this world's unsanitary conditions. He still grimaces as the cider still burns down his throat.

The tavern has a Trick Tile board. It's cheaper than the one at The Red Band, smudged with fingerprints and cigar ash. Syaoran stares at the machine for nearly ten minutes, thinking of Ryuuo, before sitting down and dropping a coin into the slot.

He makes it less than halfway across the board before triggering a trap—a careless mistake borne of distraction. He can't stop thinking about the kiss. Somehow, his mind has preserved every detail: the warm weight of Ryuuo's hands, the flick of his tongue, the suction of his mouth over the Syaoran's collarbone. The memory alone makes his body stir, and Syaoran inserts another coin into the machine, trying to focus.

It's futile. The memories creep up on him like mist, manifesting so gradually that he hardly notices his attention drifting, the quiver of _want_ gathering in his stomach. He wonders if it's this body, seven years too young for the mind residing in it, or if it's simply been so long since he's felt anything like desire that he's forgotten how intense it can be. Is this a betrayal of the love he felt—the love he _still_ feels—for his Sakura? They've never properly courted, but he's known for nearly two-thirds of his life that he loves her. It seems wrong to find pleasure with someone else.

In his abstraction, he triggers one of the trick tiles. The game board buzzes, flashing red several times before returning to its default state. Syaoran considers playing another round, but there's no point. Muddled as his thoughts are, he'd only be wasting money.

Instead, he downs the rest of his cider, returns the mug to the barkeep, and spends the next two hours wandering the Undercity.

* * *

The others are waiting for him by the time he arrives at The Red Band. Or, rather, Kurogane is waiting. Fai and Sakura have already settled in at one of the tables.

"Where were you?" Kurogane asks when Syaoran approaches. His arms are crossed, and while his tone is neutral, there's something in his eyes that Syaoran can't place.

"Sorry. I lost track of time."

"That's not what I asked." Kurogane advances, looming over him, and Syaoran backs away instinctively, only to bump into an unoccupied table. Between that and the wall to his left, he feels suddenly cornered, the jagged edges of his anxiety sparking against each other. "Where were you?" Kurogane repeats, his voice low with threat.

"I was taking a walk."

"For four hours?"

Syaoran hesitates. Just for an instant, but it's enough to make that elusive something in Kurogane's expression crystallize. _He's suspicious of me._ The realization makes him flinch, and his thoughts scatter like sand in the wind. "I . . . As I said, I lost track of time." He edges to his right, his only escape route, but Kurogane grabs him by the arm, pinning him where he stands. Immediately, his vision starts to tunnel, distress surging from the depths of his mind. He forces it back, thinking of Ryuuo, of his welcoming smiles and gentle laughter. It's enough, just barely, to chase away the panic.

When he dares to look up, Kurogane's expression has eased from suspicion to something almost like concern. He releases Syaoran's arm, but instead of stepping back, his fingers snag on the collar of his shirt and pull it aside. Startled, Syaoran stills, goosebumps rising on his skin as Kurogane's thumb moves over the tender spot on his collarbone. By the time Syaoran lifts his hand to cover the mark left by Ryuuo's mouth, it's too late.

"You were with someone," Kurogane says.

It's not a question, and with the evidence is plainly visible on his skin, Syaoran cannot deny it, so he simply nods, wondering if it's possible to drown in one's own shame.

Kurogane releases his shirt. Takes a step back. Studies him. Then, quietly, he asks, "Do I need to be worried about this?"

Syaoran shakes his head.

The ninja grunts, grabbing a bundle of fabric from one of the chairs behind him. _My jacket,_ Syaoran realizes as Kurogane thrusts it into his hands. "Don't try to hide things from me," he says as Syaoran pushes his arms through the sleeves. "I get enough of that from the mage."

He nods, buttoning up the front of the coat and drawing the collar close around his neck. Bad enough that Kurogane has seen the hickey; better that none of the others find out about Ryuuo, even obliquely. They already have enough reason to resent him without adding this indiscretion to the list.

* * *

Several hours later, before the Spectacle but after they've won an implausible nine games in a row, Sakura withdraws from the card table. "We should register for the tournament before we miss the deadline," she says as the dealer trades out their chips for currency.

The words lodge in his heart like a shard of ice. "Ah, about that . . ." he begins, recalling what Ryuuo said about the tournament, about the risks involved. Sakura regards him steadily, hands folded as he explains the penalties and conditions applied to participants. Ryuuo had been mercifully vague about the consequences of losing, but he knows enough of this world to guess at the possibilities.

Sakura listens to it all without flinching. When he trails off, she nods once. "I see."

Syaoran hesitates, only to realize that he's waiting for her to suggest the option that has been lingering on the fringes of his mind all evening. But she doesn't, so he forces himself to say it. "It might be better if you didn't participate. Safer. Kurogane-san and Fai-san both understand the games well enough, or we could find someone from this world who would be willing to act as our teammate."

"But that person wouldn't have my luck," Sakura says, a rueful smile tracing her lips.

It's not an argument he can counter. Even if he could find someone with similarly good fortune before registration ends, that person will undoubtedly already have a partner of their own. And once they pay for the tournament fees, they won't have enough left over to bribe anyone to take Sakura's place.

"What about you?" Sakura asks. "Are you still willing to join me in the tournament, even knowing the risks?"

There is only one answer to that question. "Of course, Princess."

Sakura nods. "Then we move forward."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they finish signing the registration forms, including a waiver which states that The Red Band will not be liable for any injuries sustained during the tournament. The house attendants stamp their papers and take the velvet pouch containing their entry fee, all in hard coin, with a nonchalance that suggests they are accustomed to handling large sums.

A grim silence hangs over the two of them as they rejoin the others at the bar, made more pressing by the clink of glassware, the buzz of shuffling cards. Their commitment to the tournament weighs like an iron collar around Syaoran's neck, heavy and cold.

"How did it go?" Fai asks, and while his smile is devoid of enthusiasm, there's a hint of warmth in it as he meets Sakura's eyes.

"Well enough," the princess replies.

Kurogane remains silent, watchful. Aside from Mokona, Kurogane has been the most welcoming of his traveling companions—if a lack of hostility can be interpreted as welcoming. But it's difficult to discern what he thinks of Syaoran seeking out someone else's company. Is he disappointed? Indifferent? Does he assume that because Syaoran's clone loved Sakura, he does as well?

"Perhaps we should retire for the night," Sakura says, voice low. "We've spent enough time here."

"No kidding," Kurogane mutters, eyes flicking toward the arena.

Syaoran nods, though for a different reason. Sakura's luck has allowed them to find success even here, where the odds favor the house and its veteran players, but if anyone were to realize that their exceptional luck is a regular occurrence, the consequences could be lethal. He thinks of Ryon accusing Ryuuo of cheating, more than a week ago now; he has no desire to see that same accusation flung at Sakura.

Fai finishes off his cocktail. "Best be on our way, then, before this place gets too crowded."

No one says it, but the way they all studiously avoid looking at the arena makes the real reason for Fai's haste clear. They head for the exit, weaving between card tables and tipsy patrons. Though he doubts Ryuuo is here tonight, Syaoran finds himself searching the crowd for his familiar face, torn between hope and anxiety. He'd seen the flash of hurt in Ryuuo's eyes when he'd fled the apartment. Would he even welcome Syaoran's company, if they ran into each other again?

The thought distracts him so that when a stout man stumbles into him, he's too slow to get out of the way. "I'm sorry," he says reflexively, lifting his hands in a pacifying gesture.

The man turns, a sneer on his face. "Watch where you're—" he begins, only to halt abruptly when he sees Syaoran, beady eyes darkening with hostility. Ryon. "Oh, it's _you_."

Syaoran tenses, flicking a glance toward the others. Fai interposes himself between Sakura and Ryon, while Kurogane slips subtly into a fighting stance. "Who's this?" he asks, tilting his head toward Ryon.

"No one," Syaoran says, turning aside and taking a step toward the door.

"Where's your friend, huh?" Ryon calls after him. "Still hiding like the coward he is?"

Syaoran grits his teeth and keeps walking.

"Hey, I'm _talking_ to you," Ryon says, meaty fingers coiling around Syaoran's forearm.

Syaoran's body reacts before his mind can catch up; he seizes Ryon's wrist and twists it until Ryon crumples to the floor. His cry of pain draws the attention of everyone within ten paces, including a pair of attendants who bustle over, their faces stark with disapproval.

Syaoran releases Ryon's wrist. "Let's go," he says, pushing through the gathered crowd and slipping out the door. The others follow, Kurogane and Fai flanking Sakura, placing her in the most protected position as they leave The Red Band behind.

They make it almost three blocks before Kurogane grabs him by the elbow and tows him away from the others. Syaoran allows it, though it's difficult not to react, with the adrenaline pounding through his veins, urging him to move. "Who the hell was that?" Kurogane demands, pulling him into a narrow alley between two brick buildings.

"His name is Ryon." Syaoran focuses on the patterns in the brick wall across from him, tracing the gaps between them with his eyes. "His father is one of the councilmen for the Upper City."

Kurogane's eyebrows slant. "And how does he know _you_?"

"There was . . . an incident, about a week ago. It's not worth worrying about." Syaoran braces himself for the anger, the accusations, but Kurogane just scowls at him, eyes narrowed. It's the same look he had in Tokyo, sitting at Fai's bedside after the transformation: contempt mingled with concern, as if he couldn't believe Fai would choose to fade away.

When Kurogane finally speaks, his voice is as calm as the air before a thunderstorm. "I don't care what you do or where you go when we're not around. But we have our mission here. You interfere with that, you answer to me. Got it?"

He lowers his eyes, a fresh wave of shame cresting over him. "I understand."

"Good." Kurogane turns aside, heading back toward the others.

Syaoran holds his breath, shoving the guilt and frustration and hurt into a tiny box in the back of his mind. Then, numb, he follows.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _Welcome back, everyone! Apologies for the delay. I meant the hiatus to last only a couple weeks, but it ended up stretching into a month. I did manage to write out most of the ending, but I've been struggling with these middle chapters (I'm only about halfway finished with the next chapter, though I did have a breakthrough on it a couple days ago, so hopefully I can manage steady weekly updates for the rest of the fic). I also have some announcements:_

 _1\. I now have a tumblr account. I realize I'm a little late to the party on this one, but for those of you who still use tumblr, my username is cinderstorm (I will be adding a direct link through my profile, near the beginning). The blog itself will be pretty varied, jumping between fandom stuff, announcements, and writing advice. I will also be posting sneak peeks of upcoming chapters (in fact, I've already posted a sneak peek for this fic, so if you're the sort of person who enjoys that sort of thing, you can find it on my tumblr). I will do my best to keep the sneak peeks only mildly spoilery, though by their very nature, they can't be 100% spoiler-free. I'll also take requests and answer questions from time to time, so please feel free to contact me through the Ask Me Anything tab._

 _2\. My dear friend Aquarius Galuxy has just released a book (yes, another one). It's called_ The Wizard by the Sea, _and can be purchased on Amazon at a very reasonable price. I've talked about her work in other author's notes, so I won't go into too much detail, but here's the blurb for those of you who are interested:_

On his tenth birthday, Connor trips over a wizard on the shore. Amidst glowing clovers and roses drawn in the sand, the wizard shelters him from the rain and promises to teach him magic. Three years later, they meet again, and Connor becomes his student.

Yates has never been a mentor—he doesn't deserve the privilege. But Connor comes to him after a tragedy, broken and helpless, and stays for years. Without realizing it, they fall in love. Yates knows he shouldn't: he has shaped this boy into a man. At a loss, he pretends not to notice Connor's affections... until his nineteenth birthday, when they celebrate a hard-won victory and give in to desire. Ashamed, Yates banishes his student, leaving a hole in both their hearts.

Four years later and still lonely, a tidal wave sweeps Connor back into Yates' life. When they meet again, he discovers that Yates has withheld secrets from him, secrets that could change his life. Their past is fractured, their future uncertain. But the one thing Connor knows is that he's always loved the wizard by the sea.


	7. The Tournament Begins

Chapter Seven

Three days pass before their suite at the inn becomes unbearable.

Throughout their journey, they've slept in huts swarming with pests, hovels with leaky roofs and rotting timber. More than once, they've had to choose between sleeping on the floor or on mattresses full of bedbugs. By comparison, their suite is remarkably spacious and hygienic. There's even a service bell by the door with which they can call someone to fetch them a meal or draw a bath.

No, it's not their accommodations that Syaoran takes issue with. It's the sense of being trapped that he cannot tolerate. After three days tiptoeing around his traveling companions, a ghost in their midst, his perpetual wariness has developed into acute anxiety. He's never been the sort to stay in one place for extended periods—he and his clone are much alike in that respect, though his case is perhaps more desperate, given his recent imprisonment at the hands of Fei-Wang Reed. Without their daily trips to The Red Band, he begins to feel confined, the walls of their suite inching closer and closer, until there's barely enough room to breathe, and when he wakes from a half-remembered nightmare on the third day after they register for the tournament, he can tolerate no more; he leaves the inn behind to explore.

The scenery is much the same as his last venture outside the inn: metal walkways, whirring machinery, dilapidated buildings. High above, the stone ceiling of the Undercity hangs over him, harsh lights strung in rows like artificial stars.

It's been weeks since he last saw the sky. Even in Fei-Wang Reed's dark prison, he never went so long without catching a glimpse of the sun.

 _Don't think about it,_ he tells himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as he proceeds down one of the wider walkways. Vendors selling everything from pastries to jewelry call out, trying to capture his attention, a constant press of noise that serves only to drive him away.

He's halfway to Ryuuo's apartment when he realizes where his feet are taking him. He stops in the middle of a walkway, stricken by the desire to seek solace in the other boy's company, regardless of the consequences. It's a foolish impulse. He'll be leaving this world after the tournament. If he ever returns, it will be many years from now and entirely by chance. Besides, Ryuuo deserves someone better, someone who can support him in his goals. Someone who hasn't been broken beyond repair.

It still hurts to walk away.

* * *

Four days later, the tournament begins.

"It looks like we're slated to go last," Sakura says, thumb tracing the edge of the ticket declaring their slot in the first round.

Syaoran nods. It's an advantage, though a subtle one. In waiting until the end, they'll have an opportunity to observe their competition, giving them greater insight into the upcoming trial. They can only guess at the games they'll be facing; any scrap of information they can gather is an asset.

"We'll be in the stands if you need us," Fai says, managing a faint smile as he looks at Sakura.

"Try not to get killed," Kurogane adds.

"Right." Syaoran wants to say more, wants to assure the others of his dedication, but he holds his tongue. The surest way to seem insincere is to offer unnecessary reassurances, and he cannot afford that. Not now.

They split up, Kurogane, Fai, and Mokona making their way toward the viewing area above the arena. The card tables have been pushed back or stowed away for the tournament, replaced by tiered benches padded with velvet, where spectators can watch the games in luxury. Even with the extra seating, there's barely enough space for the audience. Any late arrivals will either have to stand or bribe someone into giving up their seat.

 _There are more people here tonight than there have been for any of the Spectacles,_ Syaoran thinks, turning to follow Sakura to the stairwell at the edge of the room, where a pack of attendants wait, handling the last-minute preparations. A woman with wavy black hair reviews their registration forms, then escorts them downstairs, to The Red Band's lower level. "You'll enter through tunnel four," she informs them as they enter a rounded stone corridor. A faint, musky smell lingers in the dim passage, and with a jolt, Syaoran realizes that this is the same tunnel through which he's seen various vicious animals enter the arena. Nausea gathers in his stomach, thick and oily, and he barely hears the attendant's instructions. "There are several pairs ahead of you, so you'll have to wait until your name is called. Once each team has been introduced, you'll return to the tunnel, where you'll be briefed on the rules for this round. Any questions?"

"No." Sakura turns to him. "Syaoran-kun?"

He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "No."

The attendant nods, gesturing for them to join the line of participants near the gate before heading back upstairs to see to the remaining entrants. Syaoran forces himself to walk forward, despite the sudden clenching of his stomach. The crunch of sand underfoot, the play of shadow across the uneven surface of the walls, the light slanting through the iron bars of the gate—everything feels suddenly _too_ real, a manic parody of itself. He drags a breath through his teeth, hands shaking. The walls are too close, pressing in on him, the light ahead pale and insubstantial, and he can't—

"Syaoran-kun?"

Sakura's voice jolts him out of the past, and as he meets her eyes, the sensation of being trapped recedes. Wherever they stand with each other, he has a duty to fulfill, a goal to accomplish. That responsibility grounds him, steadies his hands. "I'm all right," he assures her, moving forward.

They join the other participants at the end of the tunnel and settle in to wait. Five minutes slip by, then ten. As the announcer addresses the audience, Syaoran studies their competition. They've played most of the other teams as they collected money for the tournament, but he hasn't kept track of specific opponents, only statistics, and though he's no longer on the edge of panic, he's too keyed up to recall who they've beaten and who they haven't. _We have Sakura's luck,_ he reminds himself, but it's a hollow reassurance. Luck will help them, but they'll need more than luck to win the tournament, and they've had so little time to practice.

A rattle of chains draws him from his distraction. One of the other gates opens, and the first team steps out onto the stands, pausing in the spotlight for a moment before making room for the next pair, who then move aside for the next, and on and on, a parade of elegantly dressed men and women displaying themselves for a bloodthirsty audience. When the announcer calls Souma's name, Syaoran's eyes flicker to either side of her, looking for Ryuuo, but he finds only a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her left cheek. _Of course Ryuuo isn't here,_ he thinks, blushing as he realizes how foolish he's being. _He told me he wasn't participating._

Once everyone in the first group has had their moment in the spotlight, they file back into their tunnel, and the second group enters the arena. Syaoran stiffens as Ryon saunters out onto the sands, a smirk stretching across his blocky face. Next to him, an alternate version of the Ryanban from Koryo does the same, hands lifted toward the spectators.

"I didn't realize the councilman would be attending," murmurs one of the women in line ahead of them. "Seems a bit risky, politically speaking."

"As if that would stop him," says another woman. "Everyone already knows he's corrupt. Him being here won't do much to damage his reputation."

Beside him, Sakura shuffles her feet. "Do you think they're going to be a problem?" she whispers, tilting her head toward Ryon and his father.

"I don't know." Ryon doesn't seem the sort to indulge his grudges personally; when confronted about his false accusations toward Ryuuo, he'd backed down, promising later retribution. But Ryon might hire someone else to make trouble in his stead, and that could be dangerous. "We need to be careful."

Sakura nods solemnly.

The gates on the third tunnel rise, six more teams marching onto the sands. He recognizes a few pairs from previous games, and he spots an alternate version of Chitose, from Edonis, paired up with a soft-featured blonde in a shimmering silver dress. As the last team retreats from the spotlight, Syaoran hears the chains attached to their own gate rattle, the iron portcullis rising. The announcer calls the first team forward, voice echoing strangely against the stone, and even in the shadowed confines of the tunnel, the swell of applause sends Syaoran's pulse thrumming. He takes a breath to steady himself as the next pair steps out into the spotlight, then tenses as Sakura laces her fingers with his.

"Is this okay?" she asks, hesitant in a way she hasn't been since Tokyo.

Syaoran frowns, confused. Why she would ask for reassurance now, when she hasn't required it in weeks? Surely if she can watch the Spectacle without flinching, she can endure a few moments of scrutiny from the audience. But then he realizes she's trying to comfort _him,_ and something fractures inside him. He doesn't deserve her assurances; if anything, she should resent him for being an inadequate replacement for the one she loved.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, withdrawing his hand. "But I can't."

Sakura's eyes dance with a dozen different emotions before settling back into their usual cool neutrality. "Of course," she says, letting her hand drop. "My apologies."

They say nothing more as they await their turn in the spotlight. As the team before them pauses in the middle of the arena, they step out of the tunnel, onto the too-bright sand. Syaoran tilts his head back, searching the crowd for Kurogane and Fai, but the shafts of light lancing down from above leave him half-blind, unable to make out the faces in the crowd, and even with hundreds of eyes watching, even with Sakura standing at his side, he feels alone.

"Hey, Syaoran! Over here!"

His head snaps up, his gaze skittering across the sea of faces, even as the lights pierce his eyes. A flicker of movement catches his attention, and his gaze locks onto Ryuuo as he waves his arms over his head. In the harsh glow, he can make out only the broadest lines of Ryuuo's figure, but he sees the thumbs-up Ryuuo flashes him, and his crippling loneliness vanishes like mist under the heat of the sun.

"Who's that?" Sakura asks, squinting.

"A friend." He lifts his hand in a wave, applause rippling through the audience. Ryuuo's cheer rises above the din, and even half-blind and thirty feet away, Syaoran sees the other boy's grin.

They linger in the spotlight a moment more before turning around and heading back into the tunnel. As soon as they're past the gate, a rectangular platform descends from the ceiling, a quartet of attendants perched on top. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's have one more round of applause for our players!" the announcer yells, prompting a roar of approval from the spectators. The platform continues its descent, touching down on the sand. _That must be where we'll be playing,_ Syaoran thinks, watching the attendants step off the dais and move to the corners, throwing a series of levers. A moment later, the platform unfolds, revealing a grid of translucent white squares. Syaoran frowns, leaning forward, then stiffens as he recognizes the layout.

Sakura glances at him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I've seen that sort of game board before," he says. "We're playing Trick Tile."


	8. Trick Tile

Chapter Eight

"Trick Tile?" Sakura says, forehead wrinkling.

Syaoran grimaces, watching as the last pieces of the giant game board lock into place. "The objective is to illuminate as many tiles as you can, using the color of each illuminated square to identify which tiles might be traps."

Understanding dawns in Sakura's eyes. "It's a strategy game."

Syaoran nods grimly. Sakura's luck might give them a marginal advantage when they run out of safe tiles, but it won't save them if they make a mistake. _I should have been more insistent about keeping Sakura out of this tournament,_ he thinks, hands clenching. _I should have guessed we might face a trial like this._

"You've played this game before?" Sakura asks.

"A few times." _With Ryuuo._ "I've never illuminated the entire board."

Sakura presses her lips into a thin line, staring at the empty board through the bars of the portcullis. "We have to try," she says at last.

Syaoran bows his head, neither acknowledging the words nor refuting them. They need to recover Sakura's feather. They've spent weeks angling for an opportunity. But Ryuuo's words about the dangers of this tournament thread through his mind, a reminder of everything they're risking, and anxiety creeps over him like frost across a pond.

Two minutes later, a slender woman clad in the tight-fitting clothes of The Red Band's attendants calls everyone in the tunnel to attention and explains the rules of Trick Tile. "In tonight's game, the objective is not to fill out the entire board," she says, her dark eyes panning across the participants. "Instead, one member of each team will start on a designated tile and make their way to another tile across the board. Once that person has been directed to their starting position, they will be blindfolded by one of the attendants, and their partner will guide them to the final tile using only their voice. Teams who make it all the way across the board will proceed to the next round."

A curly-haired man in a black pea-coat steps forward. "What happens if someone sets off a trap?"

"That depends." Something cold flickers in the woman's eyes. Annoyance? Contempt? Whatever it is, it melts away before Syaoran can identify it. "By itself, triggering a trick tile will not disqualify you from the round. However, the traps are designed to stun or incapacitate whoever triggers them, so it would be wise to avoid them. So long as you are physically able to continue, you may do so. Note, however, that some of the traps may be deadly. If at any point either team member wishes to forfeit, they merely need to announce their intention and wait until one of us can disable the traps. Questions?" When no one speaks, the woman nods. "Your names will be called in accordance with the tickets you drew earlier this evening. If any of you require anything, direct your request to the attendant at the end of the tunnel. The first round will begin shortly."

As the woman walks away, Syaoran turns to Sakura. "I'll wear the blindfold. You can direct my movements."

Sakura regards him, dismay and frustration warring on her face before settling into calm resolve. "No," she says. "I'll go into the arena. You can be my guide."

"Princess—"

"They're my memories," she whispers, her fingers knotting in the lacy trim of her skirt. "If there is an opportunity to recover them without risking anyone else, I have to take it. And also," she adds before he can object, "you understand this game better than I do. It's only reasonable for you to lead."

He bows his head to hide his expression. _You're too valuable to put yourself at risk like this,_ he almost says, but he has watched this Sakura through his clone's eyes, and he knows the argument won't sway her. There is a reason Sakura is so beloved by her people: in her eyes, everyone's life matters. No one is expendable, not even him.

"As you wish, Princess," he says, the words bitter on his tongue.

* * *

A woman dies during the second game.

"To the left," her partner says from the glass platform suspended above the arena. Her eyes widen as she realizes her mistake, and she cries out, voice panicked. "No, the right!"

The words come too late. The blindfolded woman's foot comes down on the wrong tile, triggering a mine. The explosion ripples through the arena, disturbing the sand piled up along the edges of the board, and shards of translucent tile tear through the blindfolded woman as if she's made of tissue paper.

Shock ripples through the audience, then dissolves into cheers. On the platform, the dead woman's partner falls to her knees, staring down at her friend's remains and sobbing.

* * *

The next few games go better. In two, the blindfolded participants make it all the way across the arena without triggering any mines. Syaoran stands by Sakura's side, queasy. The Red Band's attendants had briefly entered the arena to clear away the remains of the game's first victim and replace the shattered tiles, but in their haste to move onto the next round, they'd left bits of viscera behind, and the coppery scent of blood lingers at the back of Syaoran's throat, making him want to retch.

Three rounds after the first death, a man triggers a trap. This time, instead of an explosion, the man receives a debilitating electrical shock and collapses onto the tiles behind him, clutching his chest. Syaoran freezes, watching the man convulse until the current subsides. The crowd goes silent—not in horror, but in anticipation—then applauds as the man rises to his feet, hands trembling. His partner, an alternate version of Shougo, looks even more shaken, but manages to talk the man through the rest of the round without setting off any other traps.

The next team consists of Souma and her partner. Syaoran watches them pause as the attendants lower the platform, blinking in surprise when Souma leans forward and kisses the dark-haired woman, first on the lips, then on the tattoo on her cheek. Even after his clumsy kiss with Ryuuo a week ago, Syaoran hasn't given much thought to how same-sex relationships might be perceived in this world. It's not an issue in Clow—unsurprisingly, given the way Touya and Yukito interact—but he's seen countries where such relationships are mocked or considered unnatural, and it's always somewhat discomfiting.

Evidently, same-sex relationships carry no such stigma here. Several members of the crowd let out hoots of excitement, while the rest offer the usual applause as Souma steps onto the platform. Her partner takes her position on the starting square, closing her eyes as an attendant steps forth to blindfold her. As the viewing platform rises to its height, Souma leans against the railing. "Forward one tile."

The tattooed woman steps forward, and as her foot touches the tile, several adjacent squares light up in various colors, indicating how many traps surround each one.

After a moment's consideration, Souma calls out another instruction. "Diagonal, forward and to your right. Now forward another tile. Left. Forward."

With each command, Souma's partner takes a single, careful step, touching down at the center of each tile and gradually making her way toward the other side of the board. With her shoulders loose and her hands folded in front of her body, she looks calm, almost relaxed. Even when Souma orders her back several steps to explore a less dangerous path, the woman's composure stays steady.

 _This is what trust looks like,_ Syaoran thinks, surprised by the rush of wonder he feels. _Total confidence in your partner's choices._ He glances up through the gaps in the portcullis, eyes sweeping the crowds for a glimpse of Ryuuo. Perhaps it's because he's known other versions of Ryuuo, or perhaps it's because this Ryuuo's idealism is a welcome contrast to the rest of this world, but despite how little time they've spent together, they've developed a surprising degree of trust in one another.

Trust, and something more. A connection. Desire. It's not quite love—love requires honesty, openness, and Syaoran has kept too many secrets for real love to bloom. But maybe, with time, they could . . .

 _No._ He stomps the thought out before it can catch fire. _Even if I could tell him everything, we'll be leaving this world as soon as the tournament is over. Whatever this is, it won't last._

He turns his attention back to the arena. Souma's partner has activated nearly half the tiles on the board, carving out several false paths. Syaoran studies the patterns in the colors, mentally eliminating suspect tiles and picking out those which must be safe. Above, Souma does the same, her approach methodical, and after another dozen moves, her partner safely reaches the final square.

Syaoran exhales sharply, closing his eyes and sagging against the iron portcullis. He may have to face Souma and her partner in a later round, but he is glad that, for now, he doesn't have to watch either of them fall to the cruelties of this game.

* * *

Nearly two hours pass before their turn comes.

Every twenty minutes or so, an attendant enters their tunnel to offer miniature cakes and iced tea, but Syaoran is scarcely aware of the refreshments, his stomach too unsettled even for water. Three people have been killed since Souma saw her partner safely across the board, one after a single misstep, two after being stunned by a non-lethal trap and falling onto one of the mines.

"Are you ready?" Sakura asks.

He lifts his head, confused. Sakura gestures to the arena, where the pair of women ahead of them are currently navigating the board. "We'll be heading into the arena soon. I wanted to make sure you were prepared."

"Oh." He swallows, fighting off another ripple of nausea. "Of course, princess."

Sakura studies him for a moment, then reaches forward to lay a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right. I know you'll see me safely across."

 _How can you have so much faith in me?_ "I will," he says, because it's the response she's expecting. The response she deserves, even if he can't believe in it himself.

Beyond the tunnel, the crowd roars as the pair ahead of them reaches the final square. Syaoran straightens his back, looking forward as the attendants remove the woman's blindfold and lower the platform so her partner can embrace her. Too soon, they're retreating into the exit tunnel, the gate in front of Syaoran rising. _This is it,_ he thinks, squaring his shoulders.

Beside him, Sakura lets her hands drop to her sides, waiting until the bottom of the portcullis clears their heads. Then, together, they step into the arena.


	9. Choices and Confessions

_Author's Notes:_

 _Apologies for the wait. I completely forgot that April was Camp NaNoWriMo until, like, six hours before the event started, so things got rather unexpectedly busy these past few weeks. I did manage to eke out a couple more chapters, though (as well as a bunch of original work), so we actually_ will _be getting weekly updates this month (we may even make it to the end of this fic without another hiatus, but I won't make any promises just yet)._

 _Recap: The tournament has begun, and the first challenge is to navigate a giant Trick Tile board. Several players have already been killed after stepping on mines, and now it's time for Syaoran and Sakura to step into the arena._

* * *

Chapter Nine

Syaoran's pulse thrums in his ears, audible despite the roar of the spectators. The game board has already been reset, its tiles returning to their usual dull white, save for the pair of red tiles on either side—one a beginning, one an end.

"I'll be all right," Sakura assures him, clasping his hands in hers as the viewing platform lowers into the arena, a thick circle of glass six paces in diameter, surrounded by a railing. As it descends, a set of metal steps extends from the edge, stopping mere inches above the board.

Syaoran takes a breath to steady himself, then slips his hands out of Sakura's. "If anything happens—"

"It won't." Her gaze settles on him, tranquil and determined.

"Right." He forces himself to nod, then ascends to the viewing platform. The metal steps retract as it rises, becoming part of the railing. Below, Sakura allows one of the attendants to blindfold her, arms at her side, hands steady: a portrait of restraint and dignity. It steadies him, even as the mechanism raising the dais tremble.

The platform halts twenty paces up, high enough to see individual faces in the audience, but low enough to still feel confined by the arena's high walls. The height, the proximity of the audience, the glass floor that makes it feel like he's standing on nothing—he realizes it's meant to unnerve him, set him ill at ease so he will make a mistake.

 _It doesn't matter,_ he tells himself, gripping the railing tight and releasing a slow breath. Sakura must survive this. Anything less is unacceptable.

The attendant below raises his arm to signal the beginning of the game, and the crowd hushes, silent save for a few indistinct murmurs and shuffling feet. Syaoran clears his throat. "Forward one step," he calls. His voice does not waver.

Sakura takes a cautious step forward, the point of her toe hovering over the starting tile for a moment before pressing down. The tile, along with its immediate neighbors, lights up, exposing a small safe area. Syaoran surveys the illuminated tiles, mentally mapping out probable traps, the safe squares. "To your left."

Again, Sakura moves, letting her foot hang over the tile for a second before pressing down—long enough for him to rescind his instructions if he makes a mistake. It's a wise idea, one that might have saved that first woman who died in this round. _Don't think about it,_ he tells himself, shoving the memory into the dark corners of his mind. He focuses on the board below him, evaluating their options. "Forward."

Another step, another square illuminated. This one glows yellow, indicating that there are three traps nearby. Syaoran grits his teeth, fingers curling around the railing. _Too risky,_ he thinks. _We'll have to backtrack, find another path._ "Backward one step."

Sakura stiffens, then retreats one square. Once she's settled, he directs her two steps to her right, then forward once more, onto a dun tile. This one lights up blue: two traps nearby. From the surrounding tiles, he identifies a safe square directly in front of Sakura and begins forging a path toward the right side of the board. It's a circuitous route, but Trick Tile is a circuitous game. Better to take a roundabout path than risk stepping on a mine.

Tile by tile, they fill out the board, backtracking twice before finding a path along the edges. The disconcerting sense of confinement, the uneasy churning in his stomach, starts to subside, only to return abruptly when a tile lights up purple: four traps nearby. His fingers clench, the grooves of the metal railing biting into his hands.

When he doesn't offer another command, Sakura tilts her head up; he looks away as if she can see him through her blindfold, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Anxiety writhes inside him, a greasy, squirming mass rising up his throat, and though he clamps down on it ruthlessly, it refuses to be stilled, slipping past his fracturing control and leaving him paralyzed with indecision. His eyes skim over the audience, but the faces all seem distorted, obscured in shadow, sibilant whispers rippling through the crowd.

Ryuuo's voice breaks through the quiet, burning with confidence. "Don't let them get to you! Just keep making choices, and you'll make it across!"

Their gazes lock, and despite the twenty paces of open air between them, for a moment it feels as if they're close enough to touch—just an illusion, but it makes the glass under his feet feel more solid, the spectators distant and insignificant.

Syaoran nods, then turns his attention once more to the arena. There _is_ a way through, though it requires backtracking halfway to their starting position. "Backward three steps," he calls. Sakura hesitates, then takes three cautious steps back. "One to your right. Back again. Another right. Wait," he says as they approach a strand of unlit tiles. "You're a little off-center. Shift your feet two inches to the left." A small correction, but the squares are small enough that even a few inches could trigger a wrong tile, and they cannot afford a mistake. "Now one step to the right."

For the first time in nearly two minutes, Sakura touches down on a dun tile, illuminating it blue: two traps, both of which he's already identified. "Diagonal forward and to the right," he says after a moment's consideration. This tile lights up green—only one trap nearby, and it's one he's already accounted for.

They progress like that, etching a jagged path of light across the center of the board, only occasionally having to backtrack. Between this and the collection of false starts, they've illuminated most of the board, the trick tiles scattered like spots of ash across the glowing surface. Still, Syaoran doesn't allow his attention to stray until Sakura safely reaches the final tile, and a triumphant cheer rises from the crowd.

"And another team passes into the next round!" the announcer cries as the viewing platform descends. Below, an attendant removes Sakura's blindfold before discreetly retreating to the edge of the arena. By the time the platform touches down, the board has been deactivated and Sakura is waiting for him.

"Are you all right?" she asks, taking a half-step toward him as he stumbles down the stepladder. His knees tremble under his weight, and though he no longer teeters on the edge of panic, he feels diminished somehow, his mental and emotional resources spent, his hands aching from clenching around the railing for so long.

"Just tired," he says, managing a wan smile. When Sakura doesn't return the expression, he lets the smile drop. "We should get back to the others."

Sakura's eyebrows draw together, but she says nothing, and they make their way toward the open tunnel leading out of the arena in silence.

The gambling floor churns with people, spectators clustering around the survivors of the first round, congratulating them on their victories as they nurse colorful drinks. Syaoran shies away from the respectful nods aimed in their direction, disquiet rippling through his chest. He doesn't want the approval of these people, doesn't want the acclaim or the money winning the tournament will bring. He wants to curl up somewhere dark and quiet until the next round, wants a distraction from the casual brutality of this world, wants to see the sun again, just for a moment.

They find Kurogane and Fai on the outskirts of the crowd, alone. Fai holds a delicate glass rimmed with sugar, while Kurogane carries a tumbler of some dark, honey-tinted liquor. Neither of them have had more than a sip of their drinks, though they stare into them with differing degrees of pensiveness. They look up as Sakura hurries forward to meet them, Fai managing an empty smile, Kurogane regarding her expectantly.

Syaoran stops ten paces away, close enough that his companions must be aware of him, but neither Kurogane nor Fai acknowledge his presence, too occupied with Sakura to bother with him, and Syaoran just . . . shuts off. Turns away. Heads for one of the lounges, where he might escape the noise, the crowds.

As expected, the lounge is nearly deserted, with only a handful of patrons sitting at the bar, heads bowed, shoulders slumped: the friends and partners of those who didn't survive the first round.

He senses Ryuuo approaching from behind a moment before he feels a warm hand close around his. When he doesn't withdraw, Ryuuo laces their fingers together, tugging him gently toward the bar. "C'mon. I know something that'll make you feel better."

Frowning, Syaoran allows Ryuuo to tow him to a pair of unoccupied stools. "Hey, Kendappa, think you can get us some soft pretzels and rum?"

The bartender nods, selecting a pair of soft pretzels from a glass box overflowing with snacks. Syaoran glances at Ryuuo, his mind coming out of its haze, just a little. "I'm not sure if—"

"You'll feel better after you eat something. Trust me."

"I do trust you," he says, meeting Ryuuo's eyes.

Ryuuo draws back slightly, surprise darting across his face, and Syaoran wonders if he's spoken too directly, broken some social norm.

He doesn't get much time to think on it; less than a minute later, Kendappa brings them a basket lined with checkered paper. Syaoran stares doubtfully at the overlapping pretzels nestled within, but at Ryuuo's insistence, he dips the first into the ramekin of melted cheese and takes a bite. Then another. Then a third. In minutes, he's finished the entire pretzel and a third of the cheese, and Ryuuo hands him the remaining half of his own pretzel.

"Ah, I couldn't—" Syaoran begins, but Ryuuo merely shakes his head, pressing the pretzel more insistently into his hands. Ravenous and faintly embarrassed by the snarling of his stomach, Syaoran finishes the second pretzel as well, following it with the entirety of his rum and half the glass of water that the bartender discreetly drops off as she retrieves his empty glass.

"Feel better?"

Syaoran nods. Small wonder he felt so diminished after the first round—he hasn't eaten since breakfast, and even then, he was too nervous for anything substantial. The others would have chided his clone for skipping meals, particularly before such an important event, but . . . _But not me,_ he thinks, his relief shifting to melancholy. _They don't even seem to notice me._

"Hey, you okay?" Ryuuo asks.

"I'm fine." Which is a lie, but a familiar one. But Ryuuo's look of concern doesn't fade, so he elaborates. "I'm sorry. I think I may be a little distracted today."

"Yeah, maybe," Ryuuo murmurs, swirling the rum in his glass before downing it all in one shot. He grimaces, nose wrinkling in distaste. "You know, I've always heard that rum is an acquired taste, but I've been drinking the stuff for months, and it's still pretty awful. I'm half-convinced the people who claim to enjoy it are just doing it to sound cultured."

"Maybe it's nostalgia," he suggests. "Maybe rum reminds them of better times, so they keep drinking it even though it tastes awful."

He expects Ryuuo to laugh, or at least smile, but instead, the other boy's expression grows somber. "Could be." He sets the glass down, signaling to the bartender for another shot and setting a stack of coins on the table.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing." Ryuuo smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes. He thanks Kendappa as she sets another glass in front of him, but rather than drinking it right away, he stares into the amber liquid, tapping his index finger against the glass, eyebrows furrowed. Syaoran leans forward, waiting, and finally, Ryuuo speaks. "Want to go back to my place?"

Syaoran blinks, then glances over his shoulder, toward the main gambling hall, where his companions are. _I shouldn't,_ he thinks, insides twisting. The others will likely head back to the inn soon, and while he can hardly say he feels welcome among them, they provide a measure of safety. Besides, should anything happen, he ought to be there to protect the princess.

And yet . . . would it really make any difference, if he were there? Kurogane and Fai are capable fighters, and vigilant enough to spot any potential threats long before Sakura could be harmed. Syaoran is redundant. Useless. "I . . . I shouldn't," he says. "My companions . . ." Too late, he realizes it sounds like an excuse. That it _is_ an excuse, even if he doesn't mean it that way.

Ryuuo sighs, tracing his index finger through the circle of condensation left behind by his shot glass. "Look, Syaoran, I like you. If you aren't interested in me that way, that's fine—we can just be friends. But the other day, when you came by my place, it seemed like you wanted it, too."

 _I did,_ Syaoran thinks, staring into his empty glass. _That's part of the problem._ "My companions and I will be leaving this country after the tournament. We have obligations elsewhere. _I_ have obligations to them. Even if . . . Even if we were to do this, we'd have so little time."

"Exactly," Ryuuo says, sounding almost angry. "We only have a few more days together. Isn't it better to enjoy this while we can?"

"I . . ." Syaoran draws back, startled by the vehemence in Ryuuo's voice. For him, Ryuuo has been a pleasant distraction, a source of warmth and laughter, but until this moment, he hadn't considered what _he_ might be to Ryuuo, hadn't believed he mattered. "I didn't realize you felt that way about me," he says at last. The words feel so inadequate.

"You didn't . . ." Ryuuo trails off, leaning forward. "You really didn't know?"

He shakes his head. "I'm . . . unaccustomed to being admired."

Ryuuo stares at him for a long moment, lips parted, a dent forming between his eyebrows. Then, abruptly, he starts laughing, pressing his forehead against the edge of the bar as his shoulders shake with the strange, helpless sounds of someone who, on the edge of a breakdown, has chosen laughter over sobbing. Syaoran starts to reach out, then hesitates, uncertain if Ryuuo would welcome his touch. As he dithers, Ryuuo throws his head back, wiping the corners of his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I'm sorry," he gasps between fits. "I'm sorry. It's just— _ha_!"

 _Just what?_ Syaoran wonders as Ryuuo dissolves into another fit. "Are you all right?"

"I'm—yeah, I'm good. I'm great." He takes a deep breath, and though it trembles a little on the way out, he doesn't break into laughter again. "It's just hard to believe you could be so observant about everything else and somehow not notice how hard I've been trying to . . ." He trails off, humor draining away.

"Trying to what?"

"Trying to . . . you know." Ryuuo reaches over, fingertips skimming across the back of Syaoran's forearm, raising a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "I've wanted you since that first night we talked, but I could never tell if you wanted me, too. And then we kissed, and you didn't push me away, so I figured you must have been interested, or at least curious. But then . . . then you left, and I thought I'd pushed too far."

"No, that's not—it wasn't your fault. It's me. I'm . . ." _Broken. Worthless. Ruined._ The words lodge in his throat. He swallows thickly, lowering his eyes. "I liked it. I like _you_. But you deserve better than me. You deserve someone who can stay with you, someone who won't . . . who won't ruin everything like I do."

Ryuuo jerks back. "What?"

Syaoran draws in a sharp breath. Closes his eyes. "I've done things. Things that hurt people who didn't deserve it, people I care about. You shouldn't . . . you could find someone better than me, someone worth the effort. I—"

"I don't want anyone else," Ryuuo says, fingers curling around Syaoran's hand. "I want you."

And somehow those are the words that finally break through. Syaoran lifts his head, glimpsing the desire kindling in Ryuuo's eyes as their gazes lock. He knows he should say something, but before he can, the other boy kisses him, just briefly, on the lips, right here in the middle of the lounge where anyone could see, and the last of his objections crumble like loose sandstone. He kisses Ryuuo back, taking hold of his chin, uncaring of the stares they're no doubt receiving from the other patrons, and the words that fall from his lips surprise him as much as they surprise Ryuuo. "Let's go back to your place."


	10. Entangled

_Author's Notes:_

 _Hey, everyone! There were a couple hiccups with the posting/notifications for the previous chapter. Just wanted to give everyone a heads-up, since a lot of important plot/relationship stuff happened that you probably ought to read before you start on this one.  
_

 _Warning: Explicit content in this chapter._

* * *

Chapter Ten

Twenty minutes later, they stagger across the threshold of Ryuuo's apartment. Ryuuo shoves the door shut with his hip and twists the deadbolt, his free hand roaming across Syaoran's neck, snagging on the collar of his shirt. Syaoran sheds his coat, stumbling over it as Ryuuo pushes him toward the couch, discarding his own jacket with jerky movements.

Their mouths haven't separated since they stepped through the door. Ryuuo catches Syaoran's lip between his teeth, nibbling gently as his fingers hook in Syaoran's waistband, tugging downward. Panting, Syaoran unsnaps the button of his jeans. As he does, the waistband loosens enough for Ryuuo to pull the garment the last few inches down his hips, and the jeans drop to pool around his ankles. The sudden coolness raises the hairs on his exposed skin, and his thighs twitch at the myriad sensations as Ryuuo ruts against him, breathless. "I need to know if you have any triggers."

"Triggers?" he repeats, confused.

Ryuuo must hear the confusion in his voice, because he elaborates a moment later. "Anything that makes you uncomfortable or brings back bad memories. Things like how you don't like it when someone gets too close to your eyes."

"Oh." He tilts his head back, exposing his throat. Ryuuo takes the hint, pressing kisses along the side of his neck. Distracted as he is, it takes Syaoran a few seconds to gather his thoughts. "I have issues with feeling trapped."

Ryuuo nuzzles his collarbone, right where he left a hickey nearly a week ago now. "Okay, what else?"

"I . . ." It's getting harder to think; pleasure enshrouds him like a fog, softening everything else into a gauzy haze. He clears his throat. "I don't think I'd do well being restrained."

"Good to know." Ryuuo unfastens his own jeans, letting them drop, then removes his shirt before helping Syaoran out of his own. "Anywhere you don't like to be touched?"

"My eyes," he says at once. "But you already knew that."

"Mm." Ryuuo's fingernails graze Syaoran's shoulders, possessive yet careful. It's a stark contrast to the friction of their hips dragging together through their underwear. They haven't even fully undressed yet, and already the need for release coils tight inside him. He slows his breathing, resisting the pure, animal desire to simply rut against Ryuuo until he reaches that peak.

"What about you?" he asks, chest heaving.

"M'not picky. Just don't pull too hard on my hair, 'kay?" Ryuuo's mouth finds his midway through the last sentence, muffling his words. This kiss lasts a solid minute and sends ripples of warmth down Syaoran's body. "Anything specific you want to try?"

"I . . . I'm not sure. I've never done this before."

Ryuuo grunts, teeth scraping across Syaoran's shoulder. Hesitantly, Syaoran reaches up, running his fingers gently through the other boy's hair. It's thicker than he expects, soft but dense, and smells faintly of sawdust. "We—" Ryuuo draws in a trembling breath, looping his arms around Syaoran's shoulders. "My bedroom's down the hall."

The words send desire sparking through his body. He kisses Ryuuo again, the two of them shuffling awkwardly toward the hallway, nearly tripping over the piles of abandoned clothes scattered across the floor.

They make it to the bedroom. Syaoran's hip collides with the doorframe on their way in. "Sorry," Ryuuo says, drawing back, just a little, so they can maneuver through the doorway without falling all over themselves.

A plush bed draped in a gray, argyle-patterned comforter dominates the room, raised up on four metal pegs. They fall on top of it in a tangle of arms and legs, each of them seeking to get as close to the other as possible. As their bodies press together, Syaoran feels the rigid length of Ryuuo's shaft through the thin cotton of their underwear and pushes up against it, groaning as Ryuuo whimpers beneath him. "We should probably finish undressing now," Ryuuo says, voice hoarse.

Syaoran nods, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Ryuuo's briefs and tugging them downward. His own follow a moment later, fluttering to the slate-gray carpet.

It occurs to him then that he has no idea what comes next. His eyes trace the contours of Ryuuo's lanky frame—the subtle ripples of his ribs, the jut of his pelvis, the thatch of coppery hair between his legs. His gaze lingers on Ryuuo's shaft, dark and erect, a tiny bead of moisture at the tip. It takes him a moment to realize he's staring, and another before he can bring himself to meet Ryuuo's eyes. "What do you want me to do?" he asks, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Ryuuo's arm sprawls awkwardly toward the nightstand. Syaoran opens the drawer and finds a tin of some sort of oil inside. "Is this . . . ?"

"Yeah." Ryuuo's face reddens. "So, do you want to be on top, or . . ."

Syaoran opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except a high, uncertain noise. He's never imagined himself with another man, hadn't ever contemplated the idea of being with anyone but Sakura until Ryuuo had kissed him, and while he generally considers himself well-read, his education on this point is not merely lacking, but almost nonexistent.

At his hesitation, Ryuuo's mouth quirks up in an awkward half-smile. "Wow, when you said you'd never done this before, you really meant it, didn't you?" He takes a breath, guiding Syaoran's legs so that he's straddling Ryuuo's pelvis. "Okay. Pass me the oil."

Syaoran obeys, and Ryuuo unscrews the cap, dipping his fingers in the honey-gold fluid. "Lean forward. Good, like that," he says as Syaoran braces his forearms on either side of Ryuuo's shoulders. A moment later, he feels Ryuuo's fingertips push against the puckered ring between his legs with just enough pressure to make his intentions clear. "This might be a little weird at first, but just breathe, okay?"

"R-right." He inhales slowly, then gasps as Ryuuo's index finger penetrates the tight circle of muscle.

"Breathe," Ryuuo reminds him, pushing deeper. "Try to relax."

He takes another deep breath, familiarizing himself with the strange sensation. Under other circumstances, it would feel invasive, but here, with Ryuuo, it's more of a pleasant fullness, edged with just enough discomfort to make his muscles clench despite his efforts. He concentrates on his breathing, a shiver working its way down his back as Ryuuo's finger slides out, then back in. After a minute or so, Ryuuo inserts a second digit, flexing his fingers and sending sparks of heat up his body. The frantic, driving desire of a few minutes ago has subsided into a shimmery sort of pleasure, but as Ryuuo works his entrance, the thrumming in Syaoran's groin intensifies. He needs more, needs something to tip him over the edge, but then Ryuuo withdraws, leaving him empty and unsatisfied, and a whine of frustration escapes his throat. "Ryuuo—"

"Just a second." Ryuuo reaches once more for the nightstand drawer, digging through it until he finds a foil-wrapped packet and tears it open. "Less cleanup this way," he explains, rolling the condom over himself. "Safer, too."

Syaoran simply nods. He's not sure either of them need the protection—he's clean, and based on the fact that neither he nor any of the others have so much as caught a cold, he has to assume that Mokona's magic filters out any dangerous pathogens before they can cause them harm. But better to be safe.

"Ready?" Ryuuo asks, positioning himself so his tip presses against Syaoran's entrance.

"Yes." The word rushes out of him like water from a punctured wineskin.

Beneath him, Ryuuo pushes upward, penetrating inch by inch. It takes Syaoran a minute to adjust, even with the slickness of the oil minimizing the resistance. Carefully, he settles atop Ryuuo, sliding his hips back and forth in time with the other boy's shallow thrusts. "Yeah, like that," Ryuuo murmurs, turning his head to kiss the inside of Syaoran's forearm.

Gradually, they ease into a faster rhythm. The discomfort fades, and in their place, sparks of pleasure kindle into flames, bright and hungry, consuming coherent thought until the world narrows to just the two of them, a building inferno of need. Their breathing comes faster, synchronizing in time with each thrust, and suddenly it's too much to contain. The heat blazes out of control, and he surrenders to it, pleasure searing through him, scouring every cell with purifying fire. Syaoran cries out, hips snapping forward, and Ryuuo rises with him, a strangled shout breaking free of his throat.

When it's over, they lay beside each other, panting, Syaoran's arm slung over Ryuuo's chest, Ryuuo's hair tickling his nose, both of them fever-warm.

"Wow," Ryuuo eventually says. "That was . . . Wow."

Syaoran says nothing, just sprawls across the comforter, his body loose and languid. The only slightly unpleasant sensation is the dampness by his elbow—his own seed, splattered against Ryuuo's abdomen in that moment of release. _I should probably apologize for that,_ he thinks, but instead he just rests his forehead against Ryuuo's shoulder. "This is nice," he murmurs. _Peaceful._

"Yeah." Ryuuo tilts his head, a sleepy smile finding his lips. He lifts his arms above his head, stretching from fingertips to toes, like a lion. "We should probably clean up."

"Right." Syaoran sits up. The movement pulls at him in strange ways, but it's a good kind of pain. Satisfying. They spend the next few minutes setting themselves to rights, wiping themselves down with damp washcloths and gathering their clothes. Privately, Syaoran inspects himself for any marks. Kurogane may have already guessed what he's been up to, but he doesn't want Sakura or Fai to find out about this.

The thought stirs an echo of guilt inside him. He needed this—he can't pretend otherwise anymore—but it still feels irresponsible, seeking pleasure while his companions remain mired in grief.

"What's wrong?" Ryuuo asks.

Syaoran jumps, realizing he's been staring at the wall for several seconds now. "It's nothing," he says, turning away.

Behind him, Ryuuo exhales softly, then steps forward to drop a kiss on Syaoran's spine. He lingers there for several seconds as his arms wrap around Syaoran's abdomen. "Stay a while?"

"I . . ." When Ryuuo's arms cinch tighter around his body, he relents. "Okay."

Ryuuo nuzzles the back of his neck, his breath stirring the fine hairs there. Syaoran tilts his head back, luxuriating in the warmth of Ryuuo's embrace, the protective circle of his arms, and for just a little while, he lets his mind go quiet.


	11. Someday

_Author's Notes:_

 _So, it's been over a year since I updated this. I imagine most of you have forgotten me by now. But for those of you who haven't, here's an update. I do apologize for the long delay. I swear I'm not_ trying _to be annoying, and I do intend to finish this fic . . . soon. Within the year. Probably._

 _Recap:_

 _Mere weeks after their departure from Acid Tokyo, Syaoran and company sign up for a dangerous gambling tournament in an attempt to win one of Sakura's feathers. In the first round, Syaoran led Sakura across a massive Trick Tile board loaded with hidden traps. Though they survive their first trial unscathed, the stress of the tournament pushes Syaoran to seek comfort in Ryuuo's companionship. Together, the two of them make their way to Ryuuo's apartment, where Syaoran allows himself to be intimate with Ryuuo despite knowing he will have to leave with the others once they acquire Sakura's feather. Their relationship seems destined to end in heartbreak, but Ryuuo's optimism has yet to waver, even in the face of their inevitable parting. Will they find a way to be together, or will circumstances leave them shattered and alone? Stay tuned to find out._

* * *

Chapter Eleven

"You're not going to get in trouble for ducking out early, are you?"

Syaoran stirs, eyelids fluttering. They've spent the last hour dozing on the sofa, his back to Ryuuo's chest, Ryuuo's arm slung over his waist, and it takes Syaoran a few moments to follow the thread of the question back to his traveling companions. "Maybe," he says. "But I doubt it. They don't need me again until the second round."

Ryuuo says nothing, but his arm draws tighter around Syaoran's abdomen. Syaoran accepts the shift as the reassurance it's meant to be, though it doesn't quell the thought lingering at the edges of his mind—that the others don't care enough to worry about his sudden disappearance. Surely he's not _that_ much of a ghost to them. Surely he's an asset worth protecting, even if they can't bring themselves to care about him like they did his clone.

As if sensing the turn in his mood, Ryuuo kisses the back of his neck. "I'm glad you're here. It's been a while since I've been with someone I could talk to like this. I mean . . ." Ryuuo fidgets, his toes trailing down the back of Syaoran's calf. "Souma's a great gambling partner, but even she acts like I'm just some naïve kid. But you . . . you actually believe in me. In what I'm doing. I haven't had that since . . ."

 _Since when?_ Syaoran wonders. It's not the first time he's heard this thread of melancholy weave through Ryuuo's voice, but it _i_ _s_ the first time he's had more than a moment to ponder it. He thinks of that night they kissed, the flicker of pain in Ryuuo's eyes when he explained the risks of the tournament, his determination to stop the Spectacle. And then tonight, when Syaoran mused about the nostalgic qualities of drinking rum, and Ryuuo's expression sobered.

He twists around to meet Ryuuo's eyes. "You lost someone, didn't you? To the Spectacle."

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, Syaoran worries he's crossed some boundary. He has no right to Ryuuo's grief, no right to pry into his secrets. But then Ryuuo tilts his face forward so their foreheads touch, a pained smile tugging at his mouth. "I knew you'd figure it out eventually, but I sort of expected it to take longer." He sighs, his gaze growing distant. "Her name was Yuzuriha. She was my best friend."

"I'm sorry," Syaoran says.

"No, it's okay." His mouth twitches, as if he has to fight to hold onto his smile. "It's been over a year since—since she died, so . . ."

Syaoran winces at the tremor in Ryuuo's voice. "You don't have to talk about it."

Ryuuo turns his face away, his shoulders tensing as he withdraws. Uncertainly, Syaoran reaches up to lay a hand on his shoulder, but before he can, Ryuuo twists in the crease of the sofa and wriggles onto the armrest, facing away from him.

 _I should go,_ Syaoran thinks, sitting up only to go still when Ryuuo speaks. "We had a friend—Kusanagi, his name was. He came from the lower levels, just like us. Worked in a factory, saved up until he could afford the minimum bets at some of the seedier gambling houses. Got good at it, started making real money, but never forgot his roots, you know? He came back to the slums sometimes, handed out money to people who needed it. Most people who make it out don't come back, or if they do, it's because they've gone bankrupt, but Kusanagi . . . he took care of us, even though it would have been easier, smarter to walk away. Me and Yuzuriha, we idolized him. Wanted to win tournaments and make a fortune, just like him, so we practiced every day, learning the tricks and strategies of as many games as we could.

"Kusanagi saw our potential and loaned us some money so we could start playing—small time stuff at first, but we worked our way up to the really prestigious houses. The Golden Eagle. The House of Illumination. The Red Band. Kusanagi coached us on how much to bet, taught us which games offered the best returns at each house. We spent pretty much every day up here, learning from him, saving our winnings. But then . . ."

"Then?" Syaoran asks, voice hushed. He hears Ryuuo's sudden intake of breath, sees the twitch of his jaw, and berates himself for prying. But after a moment, Ryuuo continues, haltingly.

"Then one day, Kusanagi wasn't there. At first, we figured he was just running late, so we played a few rounds, but then it got later and later, until it was time for the Spectacle, and . . ."

"And it was him in the arena," Syaoran finishes.

Ryuuo nods. "It turned out he'd fallen into debt with the house—we never found out how it happened, whether he ran into financial troubles at home or just got reckless. Anyway, they gave him a knife and announced that he would be fighting a direwolf—The Red Band's prized albino, the most dangerous animal they had. That wolf had killed six people in the month since they'd got it. Kusanagi was strong, but that thing was a beast. There was almost no chance he'd survive.

"Yuzuriha must have known it was hopeless, but she tried to save him anyway. Jumped into the arena right as the fight started, aiming to distract the wolf long enough for Kusanagi to kill it. At first, it seemed like she might do it, that it might be enough, but then the wolf just leapt at her, and she—" Ryuuo's fingers bite into the armrest, the tendons in his wrist standing up like wires. "There was so much blood, _fountains_ of it. Kusanagi tried to pull the wolf off of her, but it was too late, she was already gone, and the wolf bit him, too, got a hold of his arm and tore the artery there, and I . . . I just _watched._ It was like someone had nailed my feet to the ground. That whole time, I never once thought to join them in the arena. Maybe it would have made a difference. If I had, maybe. . ."

 _Maybe they would still be alive_ is what he doesn't say, but Syaoran hears it anyway. "It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was," Ryuuo snaps, and Syaoran recoils from the harshness in his voice, the bitterness seething in his words. "I could have saved them, but I didn't. They died because I was a coward."

"Ryuuo . . ." Uncertainly, Syaoran reaches out to lay a hand on the other boy's shoulder.

Ryuuo's spine goes rigid, then bends beneath the weight of his grief. "It was my fault," he says. "That's why I have to stop the Spectacles. So that no one else has to die that way. So that no one else has to watch the people they care about get slaughtered because they couldn't pay their debts. I couldn't save Yuzuriha or Kusanagi, so I have to save as many people as I can to make up for it. No matter how long it takes or what it costs me, I have to see this through."

Syaoran thinks of Sakura, of the feathers, of all the things he still needs to set right. He knows what it is to carry those burdens, knows how heavily guilt weighs upon the soul. He knows nothing he says will free Ryuuo from that burden.

So he doesn't say anything. Instead, he wraps his arms around Ryuuo's chest and pulls him close, pressing one ear between the other boy's shoulder blades. Ryuuo's breath hitches, then shudders out of him. "I couldn't—I couldn't—"

"I know." He closes his eyes, listening to Ryuuo's ragged breathing, to the _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart. Ryuuo tries to say more, but the words break into heaving sobs. "I know."

* * *

Later, voice hoarse with tears, Ryuuo says, "I think I'm falling in love with you."

Syaoran stills, the words tearing through him as if he's made of tissue paper. After a long, heavy silence, he speaks. "You shouldn't."

Ryuuo gives a quiet, broken laugh, and presses a kiss to his lips, then his neck, then his chest, traveling down his body in increments. When he reaches Syaoran's waistband, he lifts his head. "Can I?"

Syaoran hesitates only a moment before nodding, and they spend the next hour exploring each other, slow and tender. The firestorm of desire that drove them together hours ago has abated, but together they kindle the sparks of companionship into a new fire, stoking it by degrees. This time, release comes not as a fiery tempest, but a wave of liquid heat, pulsing through them like magma.

* * *

"Hey," Ryuuo says sometime later, nudging Syaoran's shin with his toes. "C'mon, I want to show you something."

Syaoran rolls onto his back, watching Ryuuo as he climbs off the sofa and gives a feline stretch before gathering up his clothes. After a few languid moments, Syaoran does the same, and they leave the apartment behind, heading out into the city. The streetlamps glow with hazy orange light, gradually shifting toward the yellows of early morning. Not that the distinction matters much, with no sun or sky to mark the passing of the day.

 _The others are probably getting ready for bed, if they aren't asleep already._ Syaoran wonders if they've started to worry. If, perhaps, they're still awake, waiting for him to return. The thought sends twin spirals of guilt and doubt curling through his stomach. If they _are_ waiting, he should head back to the inn, but if they aren't . . .

"You okay?" Ryuuo asks.

They've walked almost three blocks from the apartment building, but it's only now that Syaoran realizes they're heading _away_ from the city center, not toward it. "Where are we going?"

"Just a little place Yuzuriha and I used to visit sometimes." Ryuuo glances at him, looking concerned. "You seem kind of distracted."

"It's nothing. Really," he insists when the other boy's expression doesn't change.

"Someday, you're going to tell me what happened to you. All of it, not just the vague explanations you give everyone else."

The words ring with such absolute conviction that for a moment, Syaoran believes them—not just that he will tell Ryuuo everything, but that _someday_ still exists for them, that the threads of chance that brought them together will one day bring him back to this world. He cannot know the hidden turnings of the universe, but there must be patterns, he thinks, points of similarity that Mokona connects to as they drift from world to world. There is a chance, however small, that someday he'll find Ryuuo again. And maybe, by then, he will have healed enough, _atoned_ enough to give him a few more pieces of the truth.

"Someday," Syaoran agrees, and says no more.

They walk until the noise and chaos of the busier sectors fade into nothing more than muted vibrations in the walkways underfoot, until the curving, earthen walls that surround the Undercity loom above them. Looking up, Syaoran can't help the little stirring of unease. He doesn't know much about this world beyond this massive subterranean cavern, but he is acutely aware of the fact that he is deep underground, surrounding by tons upon tons of earth and stone.

Ryuuo, ever sensitive to the changes in his moods, takes hold of his arm to steady him. "Unsettling, I know," he says, tugging him toward a metal ladder. "But I promise it's worth it."

Syaoran eyes the ladder doubtfully, but it's in good condition—no rust that he can see, and every few rungs another piece of metal connects the ladder to the wall, ensuring its stability. "We're going up to the surface?"

Ryuuo grimaces. "Not exactly. This is just a maintenance ladder—it only goes up about two thirds of the way. You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

He shakes his head.

"Good." Ryuuo grabs onto the ladder and starts climbing, glancing down once to make sure Syaoran is following. They progress quickly up the rungs, occasionally passing metal platforms that jut out of the earthen walls like balconies, allowing easy access to fuse boxes and other such fixtures. Once, they pass a worker in a hardhat, but rather than ordering them to descend, the man inclines his head in greeting, as if he's accustomed to Ryuuo bringing people up here. _Maybe_ _he is,_ Syaoran thinks, lifting his head. Ryuuo looks down at the same time, mouth stretching into a grin. _Ryuuo certainly seems comfortable._

Their climb takes a little over fifteen minutes—long enough that he begins to feel a slight strain in his arms from climbing, but not long enough for it to develop into a cramp. Ryuuo stops on an empty platform attached to a narrow walkway and waits for Syaoran to join him, bouncing slightly on his toes. Syaoran disengages from the ladder, flexing his fingers. "Is this it?" he asks, walking up to the guardrail. The Undercity sprawls below, a tapestry of interlocking walkways and glittering lights. It's unexpectedly beautiful from up high, its imperfections reduced to mere specks by distance.

But Ryuuo shakes his head. "The view up here is nice and all, but it's not what I came to show you. Come on." He takes Syaoran's hand and guides him down the walkway, nearly skipping with eagerness, and a minute later, they come to the mouth of a massive concrete pipe set into the wall and covered with tarp. " _This_ is the reason we came here."

Syaoran frowns slightly. "What is it?"

"It used to be some kind of drainage pipe, but it fell out of use a while back and never got plugged up." Ryuuo grabs hold of the corner of the tarp. "Ready?"

 _Ready for what?_ Syaoran wonders, but nods. Ryuuo pulls the tarp aside with a flourish.

At first, Syaoran doesn't understand what he's looking at. Light pours through a grate on the other side of the pipe, bright enough he reflexively raises a hand to shield his eyes. Beside him, Ryuuo chuckles, hoisting himself into the pipe and catching Syaoran's fingers in his own. "Come on. You can see it better if you get close."

Claustrophobia quivers at the edges of his awareness as Syaoran climbs into the pipe, but Ryuuo's grip anchors him, and he moves forward with only a little trepidation. By the time they reach the grate at the end, his vision has adjusted enough that he no longer has to squint. He peers through the bars, his breath catching when he realizes what he's looking at.

The sun peeks above the horizon, a resplendent golden arc wreathed in fog from the mountains that make up its cradle. Above it, clouds twist like ribbons through the sky, painted in streaks of red and pink. Syaoran doesn't dare look directly into the sun, lest its radiance damage his eyes, but the few indirect glances he does manage leave him breathless with awe. It's been weeks since he felt the sun on his skin, but now the light pours over him, chasing away that shadows that have clung to him for weeks, months, years.

"It's beautiful," he whispers.

"I think so, too." Ryuuo brushes Syaoran's cheek with his knuckles.

Syaoran turns, his chest constricting at the way the light catches Ryuuo's eyes, highlighting the flecks of brown and gray within the jade. Below, surrounded by metal walkways and dilapidated buildings, Ryuuo had been boyishly handsome. Here, bathed in shades of bronze, he is breathtaking: a tree spirit with a piece of the sun at his heart.

"Something on my face?" Ryuuo asks, an impish smile touching his lips. "You're looking at me kind of funny."

Syaoran doesn't think, just lays a kiss on Ryuuo's cheek as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Thank you. For bringing me here. I . . ." He pulls a shallow breath through his lips. "It means more to me than you know."

Ryuuo grins, lifting Syaoran's hand so he can kiss his knuckles. "You're welcome."


	12. The Second Trial

_Author's Notes:_

 _Apologies again for the long gap between updates. I would do a recap, but considering I just did one for the previous chapter, it might just be better to go back and reread that (heck, you might be better off rereading from the start, if you've got the time/patience, given how many hiatuses this fic has seen). I was hoping to have this story finished by the end of this year, but it doesn't look like I'm going to be making that goal. Nevertheless, I hope to finish it sooner rather than later._

 _On a separate note, if any of you happen to have read_ The October Daye _series by Seanan McGuire, I've started posting a series of drabbles in that fandom over on AO3. And if you haven't read_ The October Daye _books, I highly recommend them. The series follows a changeling (half-human, half-fae) knight, October, who solves kidnappings and murders while unraveling secrets about her heritage as the daughter of Amandine the Liar, the most famous bloodworker in Faerie. It also has an excellent slow-burn found family arc, for those of you who are into that kind of thing (which is probably most of you, since that's one of the main draws of TRC). Anyway, it's a really small fandom, but I've already got a couple short fics planned for it, so if any of you want to follow me over on AO3, that's what I've been up to lately (username is cinderstorm)._

 _Thanks, everyone, for your patience and support! I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

Chapter Twelve

They stay until the last traces of sunrise fade from the sky, then slip out of the drainage pipe and down the ladder that brought them there. "I'll see you tomorrow, right?" Ryuuo asks as they return to the streets. "After the next round?"

They both hear the question Ryuuo is really asking—it's the same question he asked the first time Syaoran left his apartment, except this time, Syaoran knows the answer. "Tomorrow," he promises.

Ryuuo's answering smile warms him down to his bones.

They part ways, Ryuuo heading for his apartment, Syaoran for the inn. It takes only minutes for his insecurities to start creeping back in the absence of Ryuuo's company, but he's already avoided returning long enough. It doesn't matter whether anyone is waiting for him; he has responsibilities to see to.

Their room at the inn is dark when he steps across the threshold, the curtains drawn against the pale, artificial light of the streetlamps. Syaoran locks the door behind him and slips out of his shoes, taking care not to make too much noise.

He's halfway to the couch before he sees the figure perched on the armrest. His body shifts into a fighting stance without a conscious thought, magic tingling in his fingertips as he prepares to draw his sword, but then the figure looks up and Syaoran recognizes Fai by the startling blue of his eye.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" A smile ghosts across Fai's face as he lifts a half-empty bottle of liquor from the coffee table and pours himself a shot.

Syaoran eases out of his fighting stance, shame knotting in his stomach. "Sorry. I thought . . ."

"You thought I was someone else?" Fai guesses. "An intruder, perhaps?"

He shrugs, uncomfortable. If anyone is an intruder here, it's him, but that's not exactly a point he wants to bring up.

Fai swirls the liquor in his glass. "You disappeared after the last match. We looked for you in the lounges, but you weren't there."

And there it is—the accusation. The knot of shame tightens into a hard lump. His gaze drops to his feet. "I'm sorry. I should have told you where I was going."

A silence falls between them, broken by the faint _c_ _link_ of ice in Fai's glass. Syaoran braces himself, holding his breath as if that will make Fai's next words bearable. "Sakura was worried about you."

He flinches. "I—"

"We're all worried about you," Fai continues, the words cutting into Syaoran like wires. "It's one thing for you to slip away during the Spectacle; no one blames you for that. But you've been avoiding us as well. And then there was that confrontation the other night, with the councilman's son. Ryon, I think his name is?" Fai shakes his head, as if it hardly matters. "It's all a bit concerning."

Syaoran bows his head. He was prepared for frustration, even contempt, but not this. He doesn't know how to explain that he's unworthy of their concern. "I'm sorry. I won't leave without telling you again."

He can feel Fai's gaze on him, but he can't bring himself to meet the other man's stare. After a moment, Fai sets his glass down and rises gracefully to his feet. "You should get some rest. The next round is tomorrow."

Syaoran nods. Fai regards him a moment more, then brushes past him with a whisper of parting air, leaving him alone in the dark.

* * *

"All participants will be required to wear one of these during their matches," the attendant says, balancing a silver collar between her fingertips. It gleams like quicksilver in the dimness of the tunnel, eerily luminescent.

"What is it?" one of the other participants asks, eyes fixed on the collar as if she's afraid it will bite her. She's right to be wary. Syaoran doesn't know what the collar does, but if the magic shivering within it is any indication, it's nothing good. Beside him, Sakura stands tense, her attention focused on the attendant's face as if by not looking at the collar, she'll be able to ignore the wrongness singing through the metal.

"It's a shock collar of sorts," the attendant says. "Today's trial will consist of several elimination rounds, during which each team will face each other in a game of Crowns. Whenever your team ends up with a losing hand, the dealer overseeing the table will activate the collar, sending a jolt of pain through one member of the losing pair. These shocks will grow progressively more intense with each loss, reaching their maximum strength after ten hands. The game ends when one team reaches that point or chooses to withdraw, and the winner at each table continues to the next match, until only four teams are left."

 _So it's a game of endurance,_ Syaoran thinks, glancing at Sakura before turning his attention back to the attendant. "You said only one member of the losing pair will receive a shock from the collar. How is the recipient chosen?"

"They volunteer, of course." The woman gives a careless shrug. "Once the dealer confirms the losing hand, a pair of buttons will light up in front of the losing pair. Whoever presses their button first receives the shock. If one of the buttons isn't pressed within fifteen seconds, it is considered an automatic forfeit, and the opposing team moves on to the next round."

She pauses a beat, surveying the crowd in case any of them have further questions. None of them do. "In order to keep things moving, we'll have several tables operating concurrently. As with yesterday's trial, each team will draw lots to determine where they are to be seated and when. The top four teams will move on to the final round, where they will have a chance to win the grand prize."

There's nothing more to say after that. Syaoran glances to the side, but Sakura's expression is impassive, her gaze steady as she lines up to receive her shock collar. Syaoran almost asks her if she's sure about this, but he knows the answer: she will see this through, no matter the cost.

As they near the front of the line, he inspects the shock collars laid out on the table in front of them. Up close, the silvery material flickers oddly, solid one moment, translucent the next. He never learned any illusion magic—by the time he was old enough for that kind of subtlety, he'd already left his home world—and this isn't _quite_ an illusion. But it's . . . strange, the way the collars flicker between real and unreal depending on the resonance of their magic. As if they're nothing _but_ magic, transformed by some undefinable process into metal.

The collar _feels_ real in his hands, though, cool and smooth against his skin. There's a little jolt as it closes around his neck, an unpleasant buzz that races along the filaments of his nerves. His skin prickles at the sensation, but it subsides after a moment to a distant vibration. Beside him, Sakura rises onto her tiptoes, her fingers flexing as the clasp clicks shut.

"You'll be seated at table three," the attendant says, handing Sakura a slip of paper. "Your first match will begin in a few minutes."

"Thank you." Sakura folds the slip in half and makes her way to the gate. Syaoran trails after her, running his fingers along the inside of his collar. The seam beneath the clasp is gone, the collar a solid ring around his neck, inescapable.

 _It's not the same,_ he tells himself. The magic of this collar is nothing next to the spells that held him in stasis, nothing like the strings of runes that bound his limbs in place as he floated in his glass prison. He could snap the fragile threads of magic with a flick of his will, though the resulting shrapnel would probably leave him bleeding out on the floor.

It still takes everything in him not to start clawing at his neck.

Sakura regards him with concern, her hand half-raised as if to reach out to him. He shifts back a step. "I'm all right."

She drops her hand, lacing her fingers in front of her body. "It's because of our magic, I think," she says, and it takes her eyes flickering to the other contestants for him to understand what she means. No one else seems particularly bothered. A few are even chatting near the snack table, nibbling on scones or sipping liquor from dainty shot glasses. He looks back to Sakura, noting the tense lines around her eyes, the thinness of her lips, and it _helps_ , knowing he's not the only one discomfited by their collar.

"Right." He squares his shoulders, looking out at the arena. Beneath the rumble of the crowd, he can hear the whir of machinery as the platform descends into the pit. As it comes into view, the portcullis separating them from the arena rises, and an attendant approaches to escort them to their table. There are four of them along the circumference of the platform, equidistant from one another to ensure everyone in the audience will have a decent view of at least one of the tables.

Once the first wave of players have all been seated, the platform begins its ascent. Syaoran scans the crowd until he finds Kurogane and Fai among the sea of strangers. They've claimed one of the benches in the front row, close enough that Syaoran can see Mokona perched in Fai's lap, perfectly still, like a stuffed animal. She and Fai both smile, Mokona with more sincerity, while Kurogane offers only a grave nod.

Syaoran returns the gesture, not trusting his ability to smile with any conviction, then searches the rest of the crowd for the familiar shock of red-brown hair.

"Who are you looking for?" Sakura asks, voice low.

"No one," Syaoran says quickly, dragging his focus away from the audience.

"Your friend from before?" Sakura asks. His surprise must be apparent, because she clarifies. "Before the first round, when the announcers were introducing us, you waved to someone in the crowd. When I asked about it, you said he was a friend."

"Oh." He'd forgotten about that. "Right."

He says nothing more, and Sakura doesn't press. They have more immediate concerns. Syaoran recognizes their opponents from the previous round, but they haven't stood out enough to catch his attention. He knows nothing of their particular play styles or strategies. But then, he doesn't need to—Sakura's luck is what will see them through to the next round. So long as they play competently, their opponents' strategies won't make much difference.

The announcer's opening remarks are winding down. Syaoran casts one final glance about the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Ryuuo, but there are too many faces, and as their dealer takes his place at the table, he's forced to abandon his search. He'll meet up with Ryuuo later, in one of the lounges.

"All right," the dealer says, shuffling his deck of cards. "Let's begin."


End file.
